


Reinventing Pegasus

by museaway



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, First Time, Futurefic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-10
Updated: 2004-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 11:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years apart, Clark & Lex reunite in Metropolis. A (very) angsty love story. (With a happy ending.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reinventing Pegasus

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Hard R for non-explicit sex & language. Contains spoilers for "Shattered." 
> 
> Written in third person omniscient point of view, so the POV jumps around. I'm sorry if that bothers you; it seemed to fit at the time. I was studying English and creative writing and felt...inspired. (I'm having delusions of re-working this piece to fix that, actually.)

Two years gone, but the outside of his parents' house still looks the same: the sunny yellow paint, the neatly planted little flower beds hugging the front walk, the gravel drive. He hears voices from within—high, low, and mid tones—familiar yet utterly foreign. It's strong, his reluctance to take a step nearer the porch. He feels the pull to run, lift his feet from the earth and be gone from this place, and yet he can't bring himself to do it. He is forever grounded in this place.

This is home.

He remembers standing here on this very spot two years earlier, just before he ran full speed far away from here without looking back. He remembers the hurt, the feeling of betrayal knowing that the men would be back: the ones with the clipboards and clean, pressed suits; with the limousine and its dark windows.

.

_"Who were they?" Martha whispered after the knocking stopped._

_"I don't know," Clark whispered back. "But I think Lionel Luthor must've sent them." He squinted his eyes and concentrated on the vehicle idling in the driveway, scanning its interior for information. "I can see some documents in the car, and they've got the Luthorcorp emblem on them."_

_"What could Lionel possibly know about you? We burned all of the evidence in his office!" Martha cried, clutching Clark's arm._

_Clark felt a sick feeling bubble up in his throat._

_"Clark," Jonathan said, his voice serious, "How could they know?"_

_Clark swallowed, his eyes darting back and forth between his parents. "Lex."_

.

The porch light flickers on, and his stomach sinks when his eyes reveal three figures moving toward him. He squints against the glare, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and blinks.

.

_"Lex?" Martha repeated._

_"He saw Edge's car hit me. Watched me stop it. He must've..." He looked away, unable to say it._

_"God damn it, Clark." Jonathan's eyes were dark. "Now do you finally understand why I told you to stay the hell away from him?"_

_Clark shook his head furiously. "But Lex would never— he'd never—"_

.

Feels his mother's arms close around him, his father's hand resting against his shoulder.

.

 _"I never should've allowed you to even_ speak _to him."_

_"Don't say that!" he said as loudly as he dared. "Lex is my best friend! You know he'd never—"_

_"No, Clark, I don't know," Jonathan snapped back. "I don't know, because there were just five men at the door asking to speak with Kal, and I had to act like I had no idea what he was talking about even though he had pictures of you that he shoved in my face!"_

.

Someone is crying; he can feel the wet on his neck, as though he is drowning.

"Oh, Clark!"

.

_Martha tried to keep her tone steady, but her hands shook. "Clark, does Lex know about Kal?"_

_Clark closed his eyes and recalled everything that happened a few days back, something about Edge's house and a string of kryptonite. Stopping the car in the driveway. Taking the gun from Lex's hand. Lex screaming his name as he ran._

_"He might've heard Edge call me that," he whispered._

_"Christ."_

_"Jonathan—"_

_"I have to think, Martha. Just let me think."_

.

"Oh, Clark," Martha whispers, "I thought I'd never see you again."

He can smell her perfume; it hasn't changed.

.

_"What if I left town for a while?" Clark asked, and Martha shook her head, but Clark continued. "Just until they go away. A few weeks, maybe. Until they stop."_

.

Lex stands back, hands in his pockets, smiling at Clark with his eyes gleaming.

Clark stares at him, feels acid pulsing in his throat and swallows.

.

_"It'll just be for a few weeks, mom. Until we figure out what's going on. Lex wouldn't have said anything. I know him."_

.

Arms still tight around him, and then they're gone, and he sees his mother press her hands to her face.

Jonathan smiles and squeezes the hand on Clark's shoulder.

"Lex, why don't you take Clark inside? We'll be right in."

Lex nods, puts a hand on Clark's lower back and ushers him toward the door. Clark steps a pace faster and the hand falls away. He looks back over his shoulder at his parents standing together in the driveway, Jonathan cradling Martha against him. He supposes he should feel happy seeing that; he only feels a twinge of melancholy.

Once inside, Lex pulls the door closed behind him and smiles. "Clark, I. God. I can't—" He puts a hand to his mouth and closes his eyes for a moment. Then his arms are wide open and he's hugging Clark close. "It's good to see you," he whispers. His cologne is an assault to Clark's senses.

Lex realizes after a moment that Clark is unresponsive. His arms hang limp at his sides and he's holding his breath, jaw locked. Lex pulls away quickly and looks down at his shoes.

"I'm glad you're back," he tells him, trying but failing to sound collected.

Clark folds his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side. "I heard about your dad's stroke."

Lex frowns and nods. "He can't speak, and he's confined to a wheelchair. But he's alive."

"And you've got Luthorcorp." Clark says it with a smile, though something darker lingers underneath the spread of teeth.

"Well. Until he recovers." Lex clears his throat and peers through the window to see Jonathan still holding Martha close out in the driveway while she cries. He rubs his head and wonders how much longer they're planning to stand there. He had imagined a reunion with flowers and food and conversation that lasts all evening, not a cold and apathetic Clark who looks like he'd as soon kill Lex as hug him.

"The _new_ Luthorcorp," Clark continues, and Lex's head whips round again. "I heard your press conference."

His eyes open a little wider, but Lex tries to sound disinterested. "Is that why you came back?"

"I came back for my parents," Clark informs him.

Lex flushes and walks to the sink. He takes down a glass and fills it with tap water, takes a sip before continuing.

"And look at you. All grown up." He motions with his right hand.

"Yeah, well," Clark says, eyes fixed on him. "Five cities in two years can do that to you."

Lex bows his head and speaks in a restrained voice. "Clark, I want you to know that I tried everything to get my father to leave you alone—"

"Yeah, well, you know what? He didn't." Hands balled into fists, Clark glares.

The headache Lex has felt every day for two years is coming back to him now, and it's threatening to ruin any bit of joy he might have felt upon seeing Clark again. Lex puts a hand to his temple and presses. "Let's not do this right now."

"Fine." Clark brushes past him into the living room.

Lex exhales and follows after him.

+

"Now that you're back, there's _so_ much we have to do," Lex is telling him while he scoops more mashed potatoes out onto his plate. With Jonathan and Martha in the room, Clark is decidedly more tolerable. He's even smiled twice. He isn't smiling now, however.

"Like what?" Clark mutters, frowning.

"Like, get you into college." Lex suggests. He looks up and catches Clark's eye.

"I never finished highschool," Clark points out and bites a chunk off of a piece of bread.

"Extenuating circumstances, Clark," Lex continues, and Martha beams up at him. Clark frowns harder. "I have a call in to the dean over at MetU."

"What if I don't want to go to MetU?" he counters.

"You certainly don't have to," Lex tells him, straightening up in his chair. "It's just an option."

A momentary silence settles over the table. Lex takes the opportunity to chew. Clark takes the opportunity to study the interaction of this man with his parents. So far, he's noted three arm pats from his mother and absolutely no hostility whatsoever on the part of his father. He's suddenly very sorry Rod Serling is dead; it would've made a good episode.

"Lex!" Jonathan's voice booms across the table. "How's everything at the plant?"

Lex nods and swallows a mouthful of potatoes. "Things are going well. Gabe is going to be implementing the newest wave of environmental protection policies, and that should really begin to help with the air pollution in town."

"Oh, Lex, that's fantastic," Martha says, placing a hand on his arm again.

Four, Clark notes with mounting frustration and stabs at a piece of meat so hard that the table rattles.

"Clark!" Jonathan exclaims, and he grapples for his glass of water that threatens to overturn.

"Sorry," Clark mutters and sticks the fork in his mouth.

+

After dinner, Lex follows Clark out to the loft. They stand in the window. It's still warm out, being early August, but Lex feels cold, and although he's glad to have the time alone with Clark, he thinks it might've been a better idea to remain in the vicinity of Clark's parents until the apparent hostility between them dies down. It's a little like old times, the two of them framed in the cutout window against a starry backdrop, but mostly, it feels alien.

"It's been awhile since I studied astronomy," Lex says, rubbing his arms. "What's that one there?" He points toward a point in the sky low in the east.

"Pegasus," Clark tells him, his voice flat.

"The winged horse of Perseus," Lex says, and Clark rolls his eyes at the prospect of a lecture.

"Yeah," is all he says in return.

"Good story," Lex says. The wind outside rustles tree branches and whistles through cracks in the roof. "Don't you think?"

"I guess," Clark shrugs. "I like Hercules better. He went through more shit."

Lex considers this and nods. "Everybody likes a good tragedy once in a while. It ended well for him, though. Unless you become caught up in the detail that his wife was murdered and his children were -"

He hears Clark sigh and stops.

"Lex," Clark begins.

"Yes?"

"I...I don't think I want to see you anymore." He says it quietly, but the words are harsh, slipping fast from his throat before he's even had a chance to think them over.

Lex recoils and blinks several times. "What?"

Clark turns to face him. "You ruined my life," he says and returns his gaze to the night sky. Somewhere, a star falls.

Lex feels very small. "I know."

"I think you should go now." Clark tries hard to hide any doubt that might linger in his voice. The look on Lex's face tells him that he has succeeded.

"Clark, think about what you're saying," Lex says, reaching for his hand, but Clark backs away. "I understand things between us are going to be a little shaky for a while, but I don't think that's a reason to—"

"I want you to leave," Clark interrupts, his voice quiet, face turned away. "And I don't want you to come back."

"Please—"

"Leave."

Lex feels a pain in his chest and raises a hand to it, pressing in vain just above his heart to try and blot it out. Clark's hair tosses softly in the evening breeze, his arms straight at his sides and hands fisted, looking out over the sleeping farm. He refuses to face Lex. He doesn't say another word.

Blinded by tears he isn't about to let fall, Lex leaves the loft for what he knows must be the last time, and his final memory is of Clark standing in the window to his fortress, outlined by the moonlight.

He climbs into his Porsche and damns the day he laid eyes on Clark Kent. Turns the key and leaves him behind. Drives away colder and harder and older.

It would've been better to drown that day in the river, with fish to sing his mourning song.

Drowning couldn't possibly hurt as much as this.

+

"I don't want to see him," Clark says and pushes the phone away. He stands up and walks over to the fridge, pulls it open and takes out the carton of milk.

"What are you talking about?" Martha asks and covers the mouthpiece with her hand.

"Do you get it? I don't _ever_ want to see him again."

"I never thought I'd live to hear you say that," Jonathan admits as Martha steps into the hallway and informs Lex that Clark is out in the fields and won't be back for a few hours yet.

"Well, now you have. Cue the flying pigs." He goes to take a swig from the container when Jonathan bats at his hand, and he rolls his eyes and submits to a cup.

"I can understand that you're still upset with Lex," Jonathan says, "But I don't like this attitude of yours, Clark."

"Well, maybe I don't like that I left home for two years to come back and find that you and mom practically adopted him into the family when he's the whole reason this happened!" Clark yells, throwing his arms in the air as he speaks.

Jonathan smacks his hand on the counter, and Clark flinches at the action. "This is not the time and this isn't the place to be discussing this. You've got chores to do."

+

"This arrived for you, Clark," Martha tells him the minute he walks through the door one afternoon, her hands inches deep in bread dough. She points to a fat, rectangular envelope with _MetU_ printed in dark blue on the upper left corner, perched on the edge of the counter. He frowns and rubs his forehead, wipes his hands off on the dishtowel and reaches for it. Martha stands back with her hands clasped together in a pseudo-calm stance and waits while Clark tears at the paper. He pulls out a picture brochure and a letter of some sort; his eyes scan over it while Martha totters on tiptoe and tries to read what it says.

"Well?" she asks after a minute of the unbearable suspense.

"I got in," Clark mutters and sets the letter aside. "Extenuating circumstances."

"Oh, Clark! That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you, I—"

"I only got in because of Lex," he spits out, smacking the letter back down on the counter. "He probably made some huge donation to the school. That or he bought it." He laughs, his voice acrid.

"Clark—" Martha tries, her voice soft, but he cuts her off.

"I'm gonna shower," he announces, already heading toward the stairs, heels pounding loudly into each step as he climbs. Martha's eyes trail after him; she sighs and goes back to kneading.

+

"Would it be all right if I asked Lex to dinner?" Martha asks when Clark stomps back downstairs twenty minutes later in an old pair of jeans, his hair towel dried, red t-shirt clinging to his damp skin. "He's in town for the weekend."

"Sure," Clark says, stealing a carrot, and Martha smiles until he finishes his thought. "I just won't be here for it."

She sighs and wipes her hands on the flowered apron tied round her waist. "Don't you even want to call and say thank you?" she suggests.

"I never asked him for anything," Clark yells, and his mother seems to shrink into herself. Clark winces and takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. Putting a hand to his neck he says, "Mom, I'm sorry," but she only shakes her head and waves him off.

"No," she says. "It's all right. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Go and see if your father needs any help. This has to bake for a few hours."

"I'm really sorry," he says again before heading out the door.

Once he's gone, Martha bows her head and cries.

+

With the semester fast approaching and Clark deciding on MetU despite his earlier protests (mainly because he can't think of a valid reason _not_ to go), finding affordable housing within a reasonable distance from campus has become a time consuming event. Clark insisted he could do it on his own, but Martha was grateful when Lex offered to help. It only took him an afternoon and he called back with an address and phone number, and a rate lower than any Clark had been able to find in the past week.

"Honey," she calls after him when he walks in the door after visiting Lana. "Lex called to say he found an apartment in Metropolis right by campus that you might be interested in." She hopes that Clark heard "apartment" and "campus" rather than "Lex," but her hopes are soon dashed.

"No, thanks," he says, scrutinizing the leftovers in the fridge.

"Clark, I don't see why you're being so difficult," she frowns over his shoulder. "He's only trying to help."

"I don't want his money," he says, finding nothing worth eating and standing back up.

"He didn't say anything about money," Martha tries, "just that it's available—"

"Yeah, well, I know him," he interrupts, scoffing. "He probably paid someone to move out."

"Clark—"

"Mom, it's fine," he says, holding up a hand to emphasize his point. "I talked to Chloe earlier, and she said she's got a friend through the Planet who rents his place out to college student. Gave me his number."

"Oh," she says.

"We're going to live right by each other. It'll be great," he tells her.

She tries to smile. "That's wonderful, Clark."

+

"I think a part of me believed this day would never come," Martha says, her hand to her mouth, her eyes shining slightly along their lower rims. She glances around the little apartment and makes note of everything she's going to send Clark in care packages every few weeks: framed pictures of friends, a throw for the couch, curtains for the window and maybe a matching pillow.

"Mom, are you crying?" Clark teases from his place on the floor. He lifts the empty box over his shoulder, stands, and carries it to the pile by the door.

"No! I'm just— oh, fine. Yes. I'm crying." She smiles and dabs at her eyes.

"Clark, I want you to know how proud your mother and I are of you." Jonathan tells his son, surveying the small room. A small TV rests on the empty bookshelf, and Clark still hasn't decided how he wants the furniture arranged. Most of the boxes are still unpacked, and there are piles of sheets and towels on the couch. Martha brought along enough food to feed a family of six for a few weeks, and it's currently scattered all over the kitchen counter. "This is a great place you've got."

"Thanks, dad." He grins and hugs him.

"Now, Clark," Martha is telling him, "Remember that you can come home anytime you need anything. If you get lonely, if you get hungry—"

"Honey..." Jonathan tries to intervene.

"—if you run out of clothes and need someone to do your laundry—"

"There's a machine down the hall," Clark tells her.

"Even so," she says. "You're always welcome."

He smiles. "Thanks, mom."

"Well!" Jonathan exclaims, wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans. "Who wants dinner?"

"I'm starving," Clark confides, and his growling stomach confirms it.

"I thought I saw a little Italian restaurant down the block when we drove in," Martha says, slinging her coat over her arm and shouldering her purse.

"Sounds good." Jonathan holds the door for his wife. Clark pats his pockets to make sure he has his keys, then pulls the door closed behind him.

"It locks on its own?" Jonathan comments, and Clark nods.

"Yeah. More secure or something," he says. "There was a flier on the counter."

"Things certainly have changed, haven't they," Martha smiles. She and Jonathan walk down the hallway toward the staircase with Clark tripping along after them. The restaurant is close by, so Jonathan slips a few more coins in the parking meter and they head south.

Late August in Metropolis is warmer than Clark would've imagined, and the city isn't nearly as impersonal as it seemed when he lived there for the summer a few years back. And the presence of the Luthors certainly hasn't diminished, but Clark keeps his eyes on the sidewalk and tries not to notice that Lex's face is plastered on the front page of every newspaper.

+

**One year later.**

"Hi, dad," Lex says as he walks into the living room in the penthouse, eyeing the figure sitting silently at the window, staring blankly out onto the buildings below. "Having a good day?"

Lionel doesn't respond. Lionel never responds. He blinks and swallows, but he can't speak. Not anymore, and probably not ever.

Convenient, Lex thinks.

He moves to the table centered against the far wall and peruses the assortment of liquor bottles.

"Took over the Bramwell firm this morning," he says in his most nonchalant tone. "Phillip says hello. Sends his regards."

Lex puts a finger to his mouth and debates between two different kinds of scotch. After negotiating a merger, the proper celebratory drink is of the utmost importance.

"He asked how you were. I told him excellent. I would've consulted you, but, you weren't available for comment."

He chuckles to himself, decides upon a single malt from the central highlands, pours himself a glass, then moves to stand next to Lionel's chair. He puts a hand on his father's shoulder to make his presence unmistakable, then drops it just as quickly and steps in front of him, leaning up against the window and blocking the view.

He knows Lionel is curious how much profit the merger will bring to Luthorcorp, but Lex purposefully doesn't say because it's terribly fun to watch Lionel squirm.

He swallows the scotch in small sips, letting the liquid saturate his tongue and take the throb from his head. He can still remember his first taste of the stuff at the age of seven, sitting behind his father's desk, Lionel looking on as he lifted the glass to his lips and made a face as it burned the back of his throat.

"You'll grow to like it," Lionel told him. "It's an acquired taste."

"Not bad," he lied, dabbing at his mouth.

Lex isn't sure whether he truly likes the flavor any more than he did the first time or if he's simply got less disgusted by it. Either way, the last few drops slide down his throat and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Good talking to you, dad," he says to Lionel and leaves the glass on the side table, just out of reach, as he heads toward the sauna.

+

Clark gets home from class one afternoon to find his phone ringing, and stumbles through the door to pick it up before the call is routed to his answering machine.

"Hello?"

It's Chloe, who is physically attached to her cell phone. She keeps harping on him to get one, but he tells her he'd have to turn it off most of the time, anyway, so what's the point?

"Hey. Good, you?"

Clark leans back against the counter.

"No, I haven't talked to Lex lately."

He rubs his head and squeezes his eyes shut as she prattles on.

"Uh, like, a year."

Exhaling loudly, he begins tapping his fingers on the counter.

"I don't care if he starts Alien Appreciation Day; I don't want to see him."

He frowns when she doesn't take the hint.

"Well, that's my business, isn't it."

He wonders what's in his fridge for dinner. He seems to remember some kind of chicken thing his mother had him bring back with him last weekend. How long does it take for chicken to go bad?

"Chlo, don't do this. C'mon."

He considers starting the dishtowel on fire as an excuse to hang up but supposes Chloe would probably see through that one.

"Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. Okay. Next Friday. Sure. I'll be there. Okay. Yeah. Bye."

He's glad to hang up the phone, because as much as he loves Chloe, her persistence gets a little grating at times. He spots the mail piled by the door and raises an eyebrow. He ran right past it when he heard the phone ringing, and now he's surprised he managed to miss it at all. His landlord must've let the deliverymen in because there's a huge box underneath the small pile of letters. Clark flips through one envelope after the other, the letters landing themselves in the trashcan next to the sink.

He stares down at what stares back at him from the bottom of the stack, an envelope with "Luthorcorp" in the return address and small, cramped handwriting spelling out his name and street. He should probably toss it into the trash along with the junk mail from those credit card companies and the free trial offers from America Online.

He _should_ , but he doesn't.

Why?

He knows why.

If he throws it away, everything might be all right at first, but come nighttime, he'll wonder. He'll lie awake all night with his legs twitching while he pours over every possible reason Lex might have for writing to him. He'll tap his fingers together rapidly and flash in and out of x-ray vision until he finally just _gets_ up and unearths the damned envelope from the trash, rips it open, and _reads_ it.

So really, the reading of said letter is inevitable.

That, and it's attached to a huge corrugated cardboard box with a colorful picture of a plasma television printed on it, which is blocking him from the living room. That definitely won't fit in the trashcan.

"Clark," the letter begins, and Clark frowns at that because he isn't sure he likes Lex calling him by his first name a year since they stopped talking. Still, "Mr. Kent" would be terribly formal, so he lets it slide.

"The niceties seem inappropriate, so I'll be brief."

_Bastard._

"I'd like to see you."

_Bastard._

"If you aren't opposed to the idea, please call my office and I'll have a car sent for you. I will be in Metropolis through the end of the week."

It's signed, "L.L."

Beneath it is scrawled in what Clark assumes is Lex's handwriting, "Please accept this; it's the least I can contribute to your college experience."

Clark holds the letter in his hands and stares daggers at it, catching the center on fire when the anger flares, and he stamps it into the floor until the smoke stops rising.

_Bastard._

The letter finds itself crumpled up in the garbage can, shoved far to the back and beneath a banana peel.

+

Approximately seventy-two hours later, at three forty eight in the afternoon, he digs the letter out of the trashcan, stained through and stinking of onion, and runs his finger across the letterhead until he comes to Lex's phone number.

He dials.

The unnaturally-cheerful-for-nearly-four-in-the-afternoon receptionist answers, "Luthorcorp, how may I direct your call?"

He clears his throat. "Uh, hi. My name is Clark Kent. I'm calling for—" He hesitates before saying the name and takes a quick breath. "—Lex Luthor."

"Of course, Mr. Kent. Mr. Luthor has been expecting your call. I'll put you right through."

"Thank you," he says, and he feels a wave of nausea overtake him and is about to hang up the phone when Lex's voice comes on the line.

"Lex Luthor," says a voice Clark remembers so clearly: solid, professional, all business.

Clark momentarily forgets how to speak.

"Lex Luthor," Lex repeats, rubbing his forehead, and the voice on the other end of the line stutters out, "Hi."

Lex's eyes fly open. "Clark?" he asks, and he begins tapping a black enamel pen on the desktop to keep the shaking from his hands.

There are so many things Clark wants to say, like `go to hell' or `hasn't anyone tried to kill you recently?' only none of them surface.

"I got your letter."

Lex's stomach drops out, and he closes his eyes. "And?"

"I can't think of any reason why I should come to see you."

His face falls. He racks his brain for a good answer. "I just...have things I want to say to you, face to face."

Clark's eye roll is nearly audible. "Fine. When?"

"I have a meeting at five," Lex says before Clark has a chance to change his mind. "I'm free until then. I could have a car sent right now."

"Fine."

"It should get there in about ten minutes."

"All right."

"Take the elevator to the sixtieth floor. Tell the receptionist who you are. She'll send you back to my office."

"Okay."

"I'll see you soon," he says, and sets the phone back into its cradle. For a minute, he can't do anything but stare at the surface of the desk without blinking. Clark will be here standing here in his office in less than half an hour, and he isn't prepared. Not at all.

Lex places his head between his hands and tries to breathe.

+

Clark waits by the window until he sees a black stretch limo pull up in front of his apartment, then heads downstairs. It's just like Lex to make a show out of this. Clark is somewhat surprised there isn't the entire Metropolis press corps waiting to take a picture of the event.

He also wonders if he should turn down the sarcasm just a notch.

"Mr. Kent?" the driver asks, and Clark nods and climbs into the open door. It's quiet and dark inside the car once the man closes the door again, and Clark puts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. He supposes this thing is probably loaded with soft drinks and all sorts of junk food, but he doesn't think he'll be able to swallow anything. And if he manages that, it's likely to come right back up the minute he walks into Lex's office, anyway.

What the hell is he doing? Why did he make that call? Why didn't he just burn the letter and forget he'd ever received it, the way he threw away the phone messages for weeks until Lex finally got the hint and stopped calling him?

A part of him still loves Lex. How could he not, after all their time together? Lex had been, excepting the whole _by the way, he's an alien_ thing, the best friend Clark ever had. He defended Lex to his parents for months until one of Lionel's creeps slipped him a videotape of Lex in the asylum repeating over and over how he saw Edge's car slam into Clark at a speed so high that no one should've been able to survive it.

Clark knew in that moment what heartbreak was.

He'd never put it into so many words, but Clark always knew that as long as Lex remained in the dark about Clark's real identity, he could never be held and used to garner information. It wasn't that Clark didn't trust Lex with his secrets; he didn't trust those closest to Lex—Lionel, specifically—to allow Lex the luxury of keeping such knowledge to himself.

A bump in the road knocks Clark from his reverie, and a moment later, the limousine pulls up to the curb and the engine shuts off. The driver steps around once more and holds the door wide for him. Clark shields his eyes against the sunlight and says, "Thanks."

And then there it is before him, Luthorcorp, rising out of the city like a concrete giant towering over the surrounding buildings. The center of the Luthor Empire, and Clark stands at its base and stares up. It was designed to be intimidating—Lex told him that once—and Clark has half-a-mind to run. But not one to back down from a challenge, he takes a breath and walks through the glass doors. He makes his way through the lobby without once ducking his head and presses the call button for the elevator.

+

Clark pushes through the door to Lex's office approximately two and a half minutes later.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" he asks by way of a greeting.

"Hello to you, too," Lex says, rising to his feet and folding his laptop closed.

Clark stands directly in front of the desk, raising his eyebrows as he speaks. "What d'you want, Lex?"

Lex pauses for a moment, takes a breath and says, "I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

Lex ignores the question and uncaps the bottle of water next to his computer. He takes a long drink before speaking again. "Was your ride over all right?"

"Fabulous." Clark most assuredly decided against turning down the sarcasm.

"Did you like the TV?" Lex asks, hoping for more than a one-word reply.

"Yeah. Gave it to Pete."

It's not exactly the response for which he was hoping, but he'll take what he can get.

"I wouldn't have thought Pete would want anything bought with Luthor money." Lex's voice is flat.

Clark shrugs in an unaffected way that reminds Lex far too much of himself. "He doesn't mind so much where plasma screens are involved."

He gives a frustrated laugh and shakes his head. "You never could accept a gift, could you Clark."

"What did you expect?" Clark asks, throwing his arms out. "You think a year and a few thousand bucks can suddenly fix everything?"

Lex nods a little. "I was hoping."

"Well, it can't," Clark says sharply.

Lex sighs. "Take a seat."

"I'm fine standing."

Taking a breath to maintain composure, Lex asks, "Can I get you something to drink?"

"You can get me a ride home."

"Clark—"

He cuts him off. "You never answered my question."

"Which question?" Lex frowns.

"Don't play stupid," Clark snaps. "That never worked with me."

Lex looks down at the bottle in his hands. "Would you believe if I said I missed you?"

Clark snorts. "Would you believe if I said I hate you?"

"No," Lex says, shaking his head. "I don't think you're capable of truly hating anyone. Not even me."

Clark turns away. "I'm having a hard time thinking anything else."

"I know." Lex's voice is quiet. He sinks back down into his chair.

"You hurt me," Clark accuses.

"You know I didn't mean to."

"You betrayed everything we had, Lex."

Lex nods, open mouthed but with no words.

"And you were the one person I thought never would," Clark continues, and his voice is threatening to waver. "I didn't believe it until they showed me that tape, and then..."

Lex looks away this time, and his throat convulses against his will.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to trust you again."

He swallows. "Understandable."

"Is it?"

He looks back and attempts Clark's apathy. "Sure."

"So why all this?" Clark asks, spreading his arms wide, then letting them fall back to his sides. "Why bother?"

Lex blinks and traces the edge of the desk with his left index finger. "I don't know."

"Because if you think you're gonna get me back after what you did, I—"

"Clark, I'm _sorry_ ," he says, looking up with more emotion on his face than Clark remembers seeing in the two years they were friends.

"What?" he demands.

"I'm sorry," Lex says again. "I'm truly sorry, and I don't know what else you want me to say."

"I don't know if there's anything you _can_ say." Clark rubs his forehead and exhales. "They came after me. They wanted to put me away and do all kinds of experiments, and I had to leave my home. For two fucking _years_ , Lex. Do you have any idea what that's like? To be forced to leave everything you've ever known?"

Lex feels exasperated, but he answers, raises his eyebrows and sighs. "Actually, yes."

"Oh, yeah," Clark says in a theatrical tone. "I forgot; your father made you move to Smallville. And forced you to live all by yourself in a huge-ass mansion with an army of servants to take care of anything you could _possibly_ need. Talk about torture."

"Fuck you," Lex spits at him.

"No, fuck you! You always told me that you'd do _anything_ to protect your friends, but you screwed me over the second you had a chance to save your own ass. So what does that say about me?" Clark stares at him with more loathing than Lex would've ever thought possible.

Lex ducks his head; he hadn't realized how much this would _hurt_. "Is that what you think happened?"

Clark looks away. "Yes."

"You really think I sold you out to save myself? Is that how much faith you had in me?"

The boy laughs and turns his face back, looking at Lex with a mix of hatred and amusement.

"I was so strung out on drugs that I don't remember what I said," Lex continues, speaking louder than he had before. "I probably did tell him, Clark, because I wanted someone to believe what I saw. But if you think I did it because I knew it'd make my father stop with his asinine plot to wipe out my memory, then you're sorely mistaken. I wanted verification for what I'd seen, and since you left me without an explanation, I had to seek it elsewhere. The rest was simply consequence."

Arms folded across his chest, Clark stares back but doesn't answer. And then Lex says what he's been thinking for three years and what Clark has never wanted to consider.

"None of this would've happened if you'd just taken me with you."

"I don't want to hear your excuses," Clark says.

Lex's cheeks burn red. "I can only say 'I'm sorry' so many times."

With eyes dark and unforgiving, Clark slams his palms flat against the desktop so that it dents, and the floor shakes. "So say it again."

Lex braces himself on the armrests of his chair and closes his eyes. "I'm _sorry_ ," he says, and opens them again to see Clark shaking his head in disbelief or maybe disgust. Maybe both. He winces. "I shouldn't have asked you here."

Clark doesn't answer.

"I'll have the limo sent around front."

A nod.

He lifts the phone from its cradle and presses the speed dial to the front desk. "Please have the limo sent for Mr. Kent. Yes. Yes, he'll be down in a minute. Thank you." He clears his throat and sets the phone back down. "It'll be waiting for you once you get downstairs."

"Thanks." Clark meets his eyes with a fleeting glance, then turns and walks toward the hall.

"Clark?" he calls after him, and Clark turns his head enough so that his ear turned toward Lex, but nothing more. "For what it's worth, I'd rather still be in that asylum than have things like this."

Clark shakes his head and closes the door behind him.

+

The wall of the elevator is cool against the back of his neck, and Clark can feel his entire body shaking as he leans against it, letting out the breath he's been holding since he walked out of Lex's office.

Something about all of this doesn't feel right. There is a place deep inside of him where he still _cares_ about Lex, despite everything, and Clark hates the weakness that brings.

Twenty minutes ago, he stood in this elevator and shook with anger. Now he's standing in the same spot, shaking with something else and feeling sicker than he had when he first heard Lex's voice over the phone forty minutes before. He presses his forehead against the glass and watches the city grow up around him as he approaches the ground floor.

+

"Man, Clark, I never thought I'd say this, but I love Luthor forever for this TV," Pete says, taking a huge swig from the bottle of Pepsi Twist he holds in his right hand.

Clark frowns and turns the volume up a few notches. "Can we not mention him?" he asks, and he yawns deeply.

"Sorry," Pete mutters. "Hey, pass the Doritos."

Lifting a handful for himself, Clark passes the bowl to his left but doesn't say anything. Pete's couch smells like smoke from whoever owned it last, but it's worn and soft, and Clark feels relaxed for the first time all night.

"How come you're so on edge?" Pete asks.

Clark bites down on a chip. Speaks through the mouthful. "Went to see him today."

Jaw dropped a little, Pete turns to face him. "You what?"

He sighs and rests his head back against the wall. "He sent me a letter with the TV."

Pete sits forward. "What'd he want?"

A shake of the head, and Clark's hair spills onto his forehead. "I dunno. Said he had things he wanted to say. But I was so pissed when I got there, I didn't let him talk."

Pete shakes his head and sits back. "He gave you the shaft, Clark. You don't owe him anything."

A nod. "I know."

Several seconds pass, and Pete swallows another handful of chips, returning his gaze to the screen. Tilts his head and says, "Really helped your parents out when you were gone, though."

Scowling, Clark shoots back, "If he hadn't told his father I'm a goddamned alien, they wouldn't have _needed_ any help."

Pete holds his hands up. "You don't hear me arguing. I'm just saying."

Clark settles deeper into the couch and pulls the bowl of chips up against his chest. So what if Lex helped out his parents while he was gone? That didn't nominate him for any special awards. And besides, it's not like writing out a check for a few thousand dollars every couple of months to pay for hired labor makes the man a fucking saint or anything. That's just buying off guilt.

The bowl suddenly shatters in his hands, and Pete stares at him with wide eyes, brushing bits of ceramic dust from his arms.

"Hey, Clark?" he says after the initial shock has passed.

"What?" Clark snaps, picking up the broken pieces from his lap and placing them on the table.

Pete shakes his head and laughs and picks an unbroken chip from the ruins. "Remind me never to piss you off."

+

Two days later, Clark is on his way home from the Class from Hell, or, in other words, his women's studies lecture. The fact that it's on his schedule is all Chloe's fault; if she weren't so damned convincing, he'd be taking something interesting, like the history of superheroes in pop culture. But no, it's gender stereotyping and binary systems every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for him.

He's hungry; he forgot to grab something for lunch before leaving that morning and left his wallet on the dresser next to his bed, so he hadn't been able to buy anything, either. His building is one block away, and his stomach knows this because it's getting louder by the second; but any excitement he feels is extinguished by the sight of a certain figure waiting for him on the sidewalk.

"What're you doing here?" he spits out, reaching for his keys.

Lex shrugs. His eyes are encapsulated in dark square glasses. He leans up against the door to Clark's apartment building in a long black jacket that makes him look exceptionally pale in the fading light of day. "I was in the area."

"This is stalking, y'know," Clark informs him.

He exhales and looks into Clark's face. "I'm not even allowed to _talk_ to you?"

"No, you're not."

Lex looks away. "All my life, I've only ever had to _buy_ people off. Insult someone, send him a watch. Need to thank someone, send him a car. Love someone—"

"Send him packing," Clark interrupts harshly. "I get it."

"That's not fair."

"Yeah, well," Clark says, raising an eyebrow. "I don't really think you _deserve_ fair."

He stares down at his hands. "Maybe I don't, but you always gave me more than I deserved, so would you at least _listen_?"

Clark inhales and closes his eyes. " _Fine_."

"Clark, I don't know how to rebuild something by myself. I mean, a corporation, yes. But a friendship..." He trails off and kicks at the pavement. "I'm twenty six years old. I've been divorced twice, institutionalized, kidnapped, _dead_ , and lost the best friend I've ever had." He pauses to take a breath and raises his chin. " And only one of those things actually hurts."

Clark glares at him.

"But since you've proven to me more than once that I can't buy you back," Lex continues, "I don't know what to do. So I need you to tell me."

"I already told you," Clark mutters. "You can't _have_ me back."

"And I won't accept that," Lex tells him.

He shakes his head and gives an empty laugh. "Well, that's too bad, because that's how it is."

"I know you still care for me, otherwise you wouldn't have come to see me. And you wouldn't be listening to me right now —"

"Of _course_ I still care about you," Clark snaps. "And I probably always will, but that doesn't mean I have to let you back into my life so you can hurt me all over again."

"Clark," he puts a hand to his head and squeezes his eyes closed. "Clark, please? This is hard enough for me already."

This is pathetic, Clark thinks, seeing Lex humbled before him and _begging_. He frowns.

"I know why you're doing this."

Lex opens his eyes. "What?"

"You feel guilty about what you did to me," he accuses. "And you're not the kind of person who _feels_ guilty, so I think you're trying to make _yourself_ feel better."

Shifting his weight to his left foot, Lex is quiet for a moment. It sounds like something he'd do.

"Have dinner with me?" he asks. He kicks at nothing in particular, his eyes on the curb.

"No."

"Yes."

" _No_." Clark balls his hands into fists.

"Please, Clark? Anywhere you want."

Stepping back, Clark narrows his eyes. "Give me one good reason why I should accept."

Lex pauses to think. "Because you probably have a mostly-empty fridge with a loaf of bread and some peanut butter, and a leftover piece of pie your mother baked for you the last time you visited."

Clark's lips twitch, and he lets out the smallest laugh. "It's actually this strudel thing she was trying out," he says. He exhales and turns to lean against the wall next to Lex. The bricks press into his shoulder blades. They stare across the street as cars pass by at forty-five miles an hour, watch the "do not cross" sign glare red at pedestrians and then shift to "walk."

Lex presses his lips together tightly and watches Clark from the corner of his eye. Clark's breathing is very controlled; a small frown lines his forehead. Sliding his hand into his left coat pocket, Lex fingers the keys to his Porsche and waits.

Finally, Clark says, "Do you like Italian?"

His head jerks up, and his eyes meet Clark's, and then he's nodding frantically.

"Good," Clark says. "C'mon." He starts south.

"I have my car—" Lex points, but Clark shakes his head.

"We're walking."

"Okay."

+

Clark stops outside of a seedy looking little building squatting between two much taller structures, and Lex lifts his eyes to the sign above that reads, "Martini's." Follows Clark inside without a word and waits patiently for the host to appear. The inside is nicer than he would've expected, old wood floors that are marked from years of use, yet clean; checkered cloth tablecloths with the short rounded jars of parmesan cheese in the center of each table next to a glowing tea candle in a red glass; framed prints on the walls—Titian's _Mary Magdalen_ , Perugino's _Young Man_ , Raphael's _Galatea_. He begins to feel more at ease when a gentleman wearing dress pants and a clean white shirt smiles a 'hello' and waves them toward an open table in the back without making a fuss over Lex's presence in his restaurant.

"Thank you," Lex says, unsure of whether this is discretion or ignorance, and takes his seat.

"Of course, Mr. Luthor," the host returns, and Lex marks the place up another notch. "I hope you both enjoy your meals."

"Thanks," says Clark, who is already pouring over the menu and tapping a foot impatiently against the underside of the table; Lex can hear the thump thump thump, and the salt shaker is rattling.

Lex looks from Clark to the menu he's holding in his hands, and then back to Clark again. Clears his throat and asks, "So. What's good here?"

Clark grins. "Everything," he says, and then the grin is gone just as quickly as it arrived. "I like the lasagna. And the eggplant. Oh, and sometimes, the stuffed shells, too."

He feels a smile trying to erupt on his face. "All at once?"

Eyes meet his briefly. "I get hungry."

"Apparently so." He scans the choices, comes upon a penne pasta with a lemon cream sauce and sauteed asparagus, and very nearly _drools_ on the table. "What about this," he asks, and points to it.

"My mom likes that," Clark comments, and there's the hint of surprise in his voice. "Gets it every time."

"Your mother is an excellent judge of all things culinary. I'll be having that." He sets the menu down and nods his head a little in the hopes that it will perhaps spark something resembling a humane conversation. "So how are your classes going?"

Clark shrugs. "Okay, I guess. I like the journalism ones. And astronomy. But Chloe made me take some women's studies thing with her, and it's so boring."

Lex laughs. "Let me guess; it isn't what you thought."

"Not at all."

"How is Chloe?"

"Good."

"And your parents?"

"They're fine."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Clark sets down his menu and stares at something across the restaurant.

"Are you thinking of an internship next summer?"

"Maybe."

"I could arrange something for you over at the—"

"No, thanks," Clark says quickly.

"I just want you to have the opportunities you deserve, Clark."

"I said no."

Lex puts his hands up in defeat and nods. "Okay."

"I've already got something lined up, is all," Clark continues. "Chloe's got some friends inside the Planet. And, well. Perry's there, too."

"Perry?"

"Yeah, Perry White. You remember him. He came through Smallville a few years ago. Wouldn't leave my house. I think you knew him from Metropolis."

"Ah, that Perry."

"Yeah. He said if he could ever do anything for me, he would. He got a job over at the Planet, so I talked to him about it a few weeks ago, and he's gonna let me shadow someone this summer."

"That's fantastic."

"Should be good. I'll guess I'll figure out whether I wanna do journalism or not."

"You showed promise back in highschool," Lex tells him.

Clark raises an eyebrow. "How would you know?"

"I read your expose regarding the bacteria count on the shower floors in the locker rooms."

"I forgot about that!" Clark exclaims. "When did you read it?"

Lex shrugs. "When it first came out. Probably in the Talon. People always left their papers lying around in there."

The waiter appears with his pen and pad and stands to Clark's right, looking down at him expectantly.

"Oh," Clark says. "Can I get the stuffed shells?"

"Of course, sir. Dressing on your salad?"

"Ranch, please."

"Anything else?"

"No. Oh, wait. A coke. Thank you."

The waiter scribbles it down and turns to Lex.

"I'll have the penne and a glass of the house red."

"Dressing, sir?"

"Vinaigrette."

"Very good, sir." He collects the menus, makes a small bow, and heads back toward the kitchen.

"Nice place," Lex comments, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

"It's kind of expensive, but I like it."

"I'll have to remember it. So."

"So." Clark regards him with a neutral expression.

Lex feels a twinge of hope. "What else have you been up to?"

+

After the meal and a round of dessert, Lex is laughing so hard about Clark's story of trying to get Chloe's bed into her apartment that his eyes start to water, and he brushes at them with his sleeve.

"I've missed talking with you," he says.

The laughter fades abruptly. Clarks eyes harden, and he sits up straighter in his chair and adjusts his collar. "Yeah, well." He glances at his watch. "It's late. We should get going. I've got a paper to write."

"Of course," Lex says, sobering, and motions for the bill.

+

They walk back to Clark's apartment in silence.

"Thanks for dinner," Clark says, pulling out his keys.

"You're welcome."

Clark looks down.

Lex toes the sidewalk. "We should do it again sometime."

Clark laughs, but it's harsh. "I don't think so, Lex."

Lex nods. "Well, think about it. It's a standing offer."

Clark sniffs and looks up at the stars. "G'night," he says, and goes inside.

+

It's barely eight in the evening, and Clark pulls the door closed behind him and stands with his back pressed up against the metal. He doesn't feel guilty about making up that whole thing about having a paper to write. He really does have one due in a few weeks, but without that midnight adrenaline rush the day before, there's just no point in trying.

Besides, he couldn't concentrate right now if he had to.

If he hadn't been so damned hungry, he probably would've been able to come up with a good reason why having dinner with Lex was a really bad idea. But his stomach took over at the prospect of an entire dish of pasta when the alternative was the fourth peanut butter sandwich in a row.

He takes a deep breath and staggers toward the fridge, swinging the door wide and placing his leftovers inside, then closing it again. Lex would've bought the restaurant out of food if he thought it could make Clark happy; Clark is glad to have made it out with only a small styrofoam container and bag of breadsticks to show for it.

The familiar throbbing is back behind his eyes, and Clark knows that no amount of medication will be able to quell it. There's really only one thing he can do, one place he can go now that he's got Lex on the brain and no way to drain it.

He pulls his coat tighter and ducks back out into the hallway, down the staircase, back out into the street now void of Lex's Porsche. Clark starts to walk, rubs his nose and waits for the few staggering pedestrians to turn their backs.

Then he closes his eyes for a moment, opens them wide, and runs.

+

Not five minutes later, Clark sits on his parents' couch looking perfectly miserable, head in his hands, brooding. Martha sits next to him; Jonathan is standing across the room, leaning against the wall and regarding him. They hadn't expected to see their son at all this evening, particularly in such a state. When he breezed in the door a minute earlier and immediately sank to the couch, they both felt instinctively that something specific was to blame, though neither could be sure of what. From experience, they also knew that if they gave him long enough, he would tell them everything without much prodding.

"I feel like hell," Clark mutters behind his fingers.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Martha offers, and she strokes his arm.

"No," he wails.

"Son, if you would only tell us what this is about—" Jonathan starts, but Clark's sigh cuts him off.

"It's Lex."

Impressive that such a small word can evoke such reaction: Martha sits up a little straighter and coughs, and Jonathan draws in a quick breath and turns his head away. Clark senses all of this and his body droops, a hand rises to his forehead and rubs.

"I though you weren't talking to Lex," Jonathan says.

Clark pulls his hands away from his face and frowns. "I wasn't." He sits back.

"Then...?" Martha meets Jonathan's eyes and they both shrug as if to say, _No, I didn't know about this, either_.

"He came by my apartment tonight," Clark clarifies, and he rubs his forehead.

"And?" Martha urges him.

" _And_ , I asked what he was doing there. Said he was in the area. Asked if I wanted to go to dinner."

Martha's hand is warm on his back. "And did you?"

Clark nods. "Yeah. Martini's. He got that pasta thing you like." He can tell his parents aren't satisfied with the lack of details, so he exhales and continues. "We. I dunno. Talked. Like we used to. Like we never had a problem." Frowns and leans forward to rest his arms on his thighs. Moves his hands up and down as he speaks. "For a minute I— I almost _forgot_." Closes his eyes. "But then he said how much he'd missed me, and it all came back. All the anger, the." He stops, pinches the bridge of his nose. "He said he wants to see me again, but I told him no."

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on him, Clark?" Martha asks.

Clark drops his hands and scowls. "You're _defending_ him?"

"Son, he worked for two years to find you," Jonathan says, raking a hand through his hair. "I know your mother and I used to be skeptical about your friendship with Lex, but we've gotten to know him pretty well over this. I know what I used to say about him, but I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong."

"I can't _believe_ you just said that."

Jonathan swallows. "I had a hard time with it myself, at first, but it's the truth."

Clark scoffs. "Nice timing. You only like Lex when I hate him."

"We don't like seeing this anger in you, Clark," Martha tells him, running a hand over his shoulder.

"It's not like he doesn't deserve it!"

Jonathan frowns at him. "I'd like to think we raised you better than that."

Clark sighs and throws his hands up. "How can you just forgive him?"

"Because we see how much he cares for you, sweetheart," Martha explains. "And you know as well as we do that he was very sick when this happened."

"I had to leave everything I had for two fucking _years_ because of him," Clark says, seething.

"Watch your mouth," Jonathan warns.

"And we know that, Clark," Martha says, her voice firm. "Don't act like you were the only one hurt by this."

"He did everything in his power to bring you home, son. And so did we."

Glaring, he mutters, "I never should've had to leave in the first place."

Jonathan sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. "No. You're right. You shouldn't have _had_ to leave. You chose to, and there's nothing your mother or I or Lex can do to change that."

Clark stands and walks to the opposite side of the room, facing the wall.

Jonathan starts after him but pauses. "What happened to the Clark Kent who used to hide up in his loft at night, watching the stars? When did you learn to hate?"

Clark turns on his heel to face him. Cold green eyes. Cold smile. Cold voice.

"You taught me everything I know."

Jonathan shakes his head. "I didn't teach you this."

+

Friday morning, Clark sits in a little diner off of the main drag and stares so much hatred into a glass of orange juice that it starts to bubble. Chloe snatches it away from him before the glass has a chance to shatter.

"Can you believe my dad said that to me?" Clark asks, annoyed that she took his orange juice and choosing stabbing his fork into a potato wedge instead, shoving it into his mouth.

"D'you want the typical answer or d'you want the truth?" Chloe asks, cocking her head to the side and blinking.

Clark frowns and chews. "Truth," he mumbles through the starch.

Chloe exhales and looks up toward the ceiling for a moment before returning her eyes to the frowning alien sitting across from her. "You've been a total asshole lately," she finally tells him. "You snap at me on the phone, Pete says you totally flipped out at his place last week, and Lana—"

Clark stabs another potato.

"—Lana says you haven't called her in a month. What the hell is wrong with you?" She snatches the fork from him and sets it down.

"I don't know." He picks up his knife and starts in on the bacon.

"Well, I have a theory." She tilts her head to the side. "If I tell you, d'you promise not to bite my head off?"

He doesn't meet her eyes but looks up. "Fine."

"I think you're confused," she tells him in her most expert-sounding voice.

"Confused," he repeats, and it's obvious that he's about ten syllables away from a breakdown.

"Yes."

"And what am I supposedly confused _about_?" he asks.

"Lex." Chloe tells him, and she keeps her facial expressions to a minimum.

"Lex." Christ.

"Duh," she says, rolling her eyes. "Look, he was your best friend. And then you spent all that time hating him, but now he's back in your life, and I think you're remembering all the bad stuff and the good stuff at the same time, and you can't figure out if you should keep hating him or just forgive him and get over it."

He blinks. "You think I should get over it?"

Chloe nods her head. "I think Lex really cares about you; and even though I don't really understand what happened between you, yeah, I think he deserves another chance."

Clark's mouth falls open and he glares as hard as he can manage. "Why?"

Chloe sighs. "Because that's not the kind of friendship you just throw away. It's like, I don't know. Like you were destined to be together or something." She takes a breath. "I know he hurt you. But I don't think he meant to. And I think that if you ever really cared about him at all, you should find a way to salvage your friendship because it would be really stupid to let it go over something that happened three years ago."

"He ruined my life," Clark spits at her.

"No, _you_ ruined your life by not telling him about yourself in the first place and having him find out when he was out of his mind on drugs. And then there's that whole thing about you _leaving_ him there and letting him get hauled off to some asylum. You're mad at him for talking? You might've done the same thing if you'd been in his place." Clark looks ready to bolt, so Chloe reaches a hand across the table and places it on top of his. He stills. "You've gotta learn to trust people, Clark, otherwise all of your relationships will be totally meaningless."

"I trust you," he says, and his voice is quiet.

"I know," she says. "That's why you told me. But I'm not the reason you're being a pain."

Clark blushes and looks down. "I'm sorry."

She lowers her voice. "Just promise me you'll talk to him."

Clark doesn't answer. He focuses on the salt shaker instead and wonders if salt melts at high temperatures. He supposes it has to.

"I don't understand how I can be so mad at someone but care about him so much all at the same time."

Chloe gives him a small smile. "Love's a bitch, Clark."

He shrugs. "I guess."

She squeezes his hand. "You'll figure it out."

"I hope."

"You will, only not by sitting here with me. Go see him."

"I will," he sighs.

"Right now," she orders.

"Right _now_?"

"Yes! Before you have a chance to change your mind."

"You're relentless."

She beams. "I know."

+

Lex is flipping through papers when his assistant's voice comes through on the intercom.

"Clark Kent for you, sir."

Blinking, Lex sits back in his chair and rests his hands on the desktop. He stands, fidgets with his shirt and runs a hand over his scalp. Presses the button and says, "Send him in."

Clark passes through the doors, flannel and flushed cheeks. "I thought about it," he says immediately.

Lex's stomach drops. "And?"

"And I'm hungry," he says, despite the fact he just finished breakfast. "You wanna get lunch?"

+

The little sushi bar is swarming with its usual noonday crowd, and had it not been for Lex's status in town, they wouldn't have got in at all. They sit side by side at the counter and sip ice water. They've been sitting here for ten minutes as Clark is completely inundated by the entire experience.

"What's _tempura_ mean?" he asks, still pouring over the menu.

Lex doesn't raise his eyes from the newspaper he took to reading eight minutes earlier, and he speaks in a quiet but amused voice. "It's a glorified word for 'fried.'"

"So vegetable _tempura_ is a bunch of fried vegetables?" Clark asks, raising an eyebrow.

Lex considers and nods. "To put it crudely."

Clark makes a face. "Ugh."

Lex turns his head to suppress a smile. "So order something else."

Sighing, he says, "I can't pronounce anything else."

Lex laughs. "Do you like tuna?" he asks.

Clark bites the inside of his cheek and tries to navigate his choices. "Sometimes."

"You might like it raw."

He blinks. "Raw?"

"This is a _sushi_ bar," Lex reminds him, and he's utterly amused by Clark's face. "C'mon. Be adventurous."

"I'd rather just, y'know. Not _die_ of food poisoning from eating raw fish."

"I eat it quite often and have yet to be sick from it," Lex assures him.

"You have an advanced immune system," Clark reminds him.

Lex rolls his eyes and exhales a laugh. "And you're an—oh, forget it. They have a few cooked items on the back of the menu."

"Ooh, thanks," Clark says, and he peruses.

"May I ask you something?" Lex says after a bit.

"Sure."

"What made you change your mind?"

"About seeing you?"

"Yes."

"Chloe called me an ass."

"Oh?" Lex pretends to check his fingernails.

"Yeah. Over breakfast."

He smirks. "Remind me to send Chloe a thank you."

Clark snorts and elbows Lex. "You're such a—ooh! Beef teriyaki. I'm getting that."

+

"This is so childish, Lex."

"What is?" Lex asks, and he can feel Clark's eyes on him.

"Uh," Clark says, and figures Lex is probably messing with him but answers anyway. "That we're standing on a pedestrian bridge throwing pebbles at passing cars."

Lex grins and shrugs. "It's fun." He chucks another.

Clark turns his head to look at him. "You don't see the problem?"

He pauses and looks up at Clark, then down onto the street and licks his mouth. "Should I?"

"Yeah," Clark says, and for a minute Lex isn't sure he wants to hear the rest of the thought. "I'm totally gonna kick your ass at it."

And Clark does.

Lex laughs and wipes his eyes. "I've missed this."

"Me too." And once it's out, it's out. Clark wonders if he meant it. He supposes he did.

Lex is quiet by his side, their arms close. He drops his final stone and stares down. "So. Are we okay?"

"We're okay," Clark says.

Lex puts an arm around Clark's shoulder and squeezes. Clark dips his head and feels heat spread up into his cheeks. He breathes in, Lex's arm still tight around his neck. Turning his head to the side, their eyes meet, and they dissolve into another round of laughter.

+

Lex takes Clark to art museums; Clark takes Lex to comic book stores.

+

They meet for a brief lunch at Gibraltar's on Fridays, a Mediterranean cafe that has sandwiches for Clark and exotic salads for Lex. Close enough to campus that Clark can walk, and it only takes Lex ten minutes to drive there in early afternoon traffic. He'd walk, but he hates the attention he gets on sidewalks. And the sunburn.

They sit across from one another and laugh over the headlines in the Daily Planet or the Metropolis tabloids, which always report Lex's female activity. There has been a definite lack as of late, and Clark likes to harass Lex over all the action he isn't getting.

+

Lex shows Clark the luxury of cashmere; Clark shows Lex the affordability of cotton.

+

Clark writes Lex emails during his astronomy discussion section, when he's crammed in the computer lab and his eyelids begin to droop because the graduate student leading the discussion has been imported from somewhere that apparently doesn't stress the English language. So instead of snoring rudely, he writes out quick messages and describes the girls in the class: what they're wearing, differing hairstyles, a rating on what Lex calls the 'Lana Scale.'

The emails are always a welcome distraction from whatever corporate decisions Lex is trying to make. He picks his favorite description and returns with, "Go for it."

But Clark never does.

On days when Clark says the pickings aren't worth mentioning, Lex writes, "Any cute guys?"

Clark very often has to leave class for a few minutes to keep from laughing out loud.

+

Lex likes to buy epic sagas; Clark likes to rent action films.

+

Lex is people watching from the round table in the corner of the coffee shop where he and Clark have gone, because Clark called and said he was falling asleep trying to read at his place.

"What're you reading?" Lex asks.

"The _Iliad_ ," Clark says, and he's got a groan in his voice.

"Ah," Lex smiles knowingly.

"You've read it?"

"A few times."

"It's so boring!"

"Sacrilege!" Lex exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Well, it _is_."

Lex smirks. "Heathen."

Clark laughs and sips the chai he's drinking. Lex made him try it. It's actually good, warm and spicy. Lex likes to have him try new things, like sushi. He's learning to like the smooth velvet texture of raw tuna on his tongue, the bite of the wasabi mixed with soy sauce. Wooden chopsticks that Lex holds up to his lips when he says, "Just taste it!"

He's showing Lex new things, too. Like cartoons on Saturday mornings when Lex stops by with pastries from their favorite bakery. Lex always rolls his eyes and mimics the dialogue, which sounds so funny coming from a man dressed in purple silk and black wool pants.

"Watch out for the homoeroticism," Lex says, and Clark chokes on his chai.

Lex laughs.

+

Just after Halloween, Lex gets a call from the security desk down below that Clark Kent is waiting in the lobby to see him. He informs the guard that Clark is to be let upstairs immediately. Clark shows up at Lex's penthouse two minutes later with his jacket on crooked and his hair uncombed, and practically falls through the door with the most miserable expression Lex has seen him wear in a long time.

"Clark? What's wrong?" he asks, moving toward the door and ushering him inside.

"You know my paper for that women's studies class?" Clark wails, pulling at his sleeves. "The professor hated it. Gave me an F."

Lex bites back a laugh and smoothes the front of his shirt. "Oh."

"This is the worst day of my life," Clark whines, and Lex hugs him because it's so funny to see someone regress to the age of twelve. Especially when that someone is over six feet tall and wearing a leather jacket.

"Clark, everyone has failed papers before," he tells him, and Clark's hair tickles his nose.

"Have you?" Clark asks, and Lex can feel his jaw move against his shoulder.

"Well, no, but I'm not everyone," he grins and pats Clark on the back.

Clark groans and pulls away.

"It's not the end of the world," Lex tells him and walks into the front room.

"Yes, it is," Clark moans, tripping after him.

"Fine. You're right. It's the end of the world." He swats Clark's arm. "Movie?"

Clark flops down on the couch and presses a pillow into his face.

Lex rolls his eyes, struts forward and pulls the pillow away. "Movie?" he repeats.

"Fine," Clark says weakly.

"The new picture on Alexander is in theatres," Lex mentions in his oh-so-casual voice.

"Fine."

Lex decides he likes a moping Clark.

+

They don't get popcorn because Clark can't make up his mind one way or the other on butter, and his answer to nearly every question Lex asks has been the same all evening. Lex picks out their seats because he no longer trusts Clark to make any sort of rational decision for the rest of the night, and so they sit as close to the center of the room as Lex can manage.

He's always disgusted by the conditions in movie theatres, spilled soda sticking to the bottom of his shoes as he steps so that he can hear the sole suction to the concrete.

Clark's legs are so long that he has to sit with them bent and spread. He crouches low in his seat like he's trying to hide, and Lex just has to laugh at how pathetic he looks pouting in a movie theatre.

The previews aren't intriguing. Lex begins to wish he'd bought something to eat after all.

"Are you going to do this throughout the entire film?" Lex asks after the first ten minutes have passed and Clark is rubbing his forehead and looking perfectly despondent.

"Yes," Clark moans. Lex shakes his head and throws an arm around Clark's shoulders and squeezes. It makes Clark smile, he can see, leaning his head toward Clark's until they're just a few inches apart, and Clark's lips are definitely upturned. Satisfied, Lex turns his attention back to the film but leaves his arm in place. Feels the brush of Clark's hair against the back of his hand where Clark is leaning against him.

He can't explain the feeling he has around Clark, and he isn't sure that he wants to, because once you start analyzing a relationship, you find its vulnerable spots, and then everything begins to crumble.

But explicated or no, the feeling is there: a warmth deep in his stomach, as though someone has lit a fire within him in place he didn't even realize had gone cold.

+

Forty minutes later, Clark is starting to nod off, and Lex can't understand why because it's _Alexander the Great_! But at least Clark has stopped frowning and is instead fighting with his eyelids to hold them open.

"Going to sleep?" Lex whispers, and Clark nods and shifts so that his ear is resting on Lex's arm. Eyes closed, breathing softly where Lex can feel every exhale. He has to smile, because he's not sure he's ever seen Clark asleep before. Especially not while he's got an arm around him. And Clark is so different like this, quiet and peaceful, with his lashes splayed out in delicate fans, light from the screen dancing off of his cheekbones. Lex bends his elbow slightly, and Clark's face slides until it is pressed against his neck.

Clark shifts and buries his face tight against his pillow. He curls a hand around Lex's stomach and makes a small, contented noise. Lex sits very still, finding his chest suddenly tight, and tries to keep his eyes on the screen but doesn't seem able to manage it. He dips his head slightly and catches a waft of Clark's apple shampoo, then closes his eyes. Something low in his abdomen curls, heated, and he clenches his teeth as it spreads between his legs.

It feels... _good_. More than that, actually, and Lex has a sick feeling in his stomach because he knows now that this isn't just a friendship, and maybe it never was. Because the hurt he felt when Clark was gone isn't something he's ever felt for anyone else. Because he's never worked to bring anyone back into his life before. Because the time he spends with Clark is always the high point of his day. And because the boy asleep on his shoulder right now might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

A part of him wants to stand up and get the hell out of here, but his legs feel glued to the seat. He doesn't need people; he's never needed people. They've needed him. He shouldn't have his emotions painted plain across his face. He should push Clark away, straighten his jacket, and make eyes at the blonde in the next row.

But he can't bring himself to do it.

+

It is a long while before Clark blinks his eyes open and stares up at Lex, then frowns a little and sits up, pulling his hand back.

"Sorry," he says, stretching and rubbing at his eyes, his voice scratchy from sleep. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you like that." He yawns and his eyes dance over the screen. Then he whispers, "I'll be right back," and climbs over chairs and legs to get the aisle, saying "excuse me" every few seconds.

Lex hears the commotion stop, then the swishing sound of the theatre doors being pushed open and then closing. He finds himself able to breathe again, exhales and rubs a hand over his scalp, eyes flitting from the screen to the empty seat next to him. His abandoned neck feels cold where Clark's face pressed.

+

Clark leans over the sink and splashes a handful of cool water onto his skin, the way his mother taught him as a child. He stares up at his reflection, at the young and bewildered expression, and ducks his head back down again.

Although he isn't cold, he can't stop his hands from shaking, and it takes a good amount of willpower to stop him from slamming his hand into the tiled wall in an attempt to subdue it.

When he reclaims his seat, he doesn't look at Lex. He sits with his hands very deliberately in front of him and clasped together; Lex's fingers grip the armrests. They both stare straight ahead until the credits roll. As the lights come up in the room and people bustle around for their belongings, Clark runs a hand over his hair and yawns. Lex takes the opportunity to stand, adjust his clothing, and assume an apathetic guise.

"Coffee?" he suggests, and Clark nods. They make their way from the theatre and down the block in silence.

+

"How was the movie?" Clark asks, sipping at a glass of water. "I don't remember much of it."

"Great," Lex replies, though honestly, he can't remember enough about the film to give his opinion one way or the other.

"I figured you'd like it," Clark grins. "It's that whole Alexander and Hephaestion thing, isn't it."

Lex coughs and coffee spills over the rim of the cup.

"I was kidding!" Clark says, handing Lex a napkin and helping him mop up the flood. "What's wrong? You seem distracted."

Lex shakes his head and wipes the back of his hand clean. "Nothing. I'm just thinking about a merger in the works. Supposed to go through next week."

"Oh," Clark says, crumpling a dry napkin in his palm. "Okay."

+

"Thanks," Clark says when Lex walks him up to his door a while later. He meets Lex's grey eyes and can't help but smile. "I feel a lot better."

"That was the point," Lex says, and he feels himself smiling back.

Clark fiddles with his keys and turns one in the lock, pushing the door open and stepping inside. He stops inside the door frame and turns around.

"You wanna come in?" he asks, switching on the light, his voice low. He swallows and casts his gaze down, then slowly raises it back up until their eyes lock.

Lex hesitates, his stomach twisting. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he looks over his shoulder down the hallway. "I've got a lot of work to finish up, so I should really get back."

Clark nods and rubs the side of his face. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Sounds good."

Clark's tongue darts out to wet his lips. Lex clears his throat to detract from the blush spreading up his neck.

"Well," he says quickly. "Night."

"Night."

+

The following morning, Clark thinks he's probably the only person in the class who hasn't fallen asleep since the lights went off inside the planetarium fifteen minutes earlier. He can hear soft snoring all around him, but he's wide-awake and attentive. It's like coming home for him to be surrounded with nothing but dark and stars and legends.

"And now we can see the winter sky as it will appear next month: December," the professor's voice drones on over the loudspeakers. "As you know by now, people saw what was most relevant to their lives within the heavens. These were often religious stories. Things of great importance."

 _Great importance_.

In different places around the world, do people see different stories written in the stars? Or does everyone just accept the stories handed them in books?

He wonders about the people who first described the constellations. Why dragons and warriors and winged horses? Why things so fantastic? Didn't people ever envision something of themselves painted on the sky? Aren't our own lives just as important as these mythical figures who never lived at all?

Clark tries to forget everything he's ever learned about Cassiopeia or Andromeda, about Taurus or Aries or Orion. He blinks his eyes closed and opens them again. He tries to imagine his own life in the stars, spread out before him against this black background, waiting for him define it.

Cetus. The flipped truck where he found his parents the day they took him home. He can picture his mother's bright red hair, the crease in his father's forehead. Smell the gasoline and smoke. Remember the feel of his mother's arms wrapped around him for the first time.

Auriga and Gemini. Kneeling with Lana between her parents' gravestones at night, hearing her ask, "Mom wants to know if you're upset about a girl; dad wants to know if you're upset about a guy." Knowing that no matter what, she would be a person he could always come to for advice or for comfort or for anything, really. That he would always feel love for her deep in his heart.

Perseus. Dancing with Chloe at formal, the way her eyes became soft around the edges when he smiled at her. Her laughter in his ears, the way her fingers tangled in his shirt. Never letting him get away with anything. Forcing him to be the best version of himself.

Pegasus. Breathing life into Lex beside the river, the pale of his skin and the grey of his irises when their eyes locked for the first time. The touch of his gloved hand on Clark's arm. The wet of his mouth, of the river water.

Clark feels a funny twinge in his stomach and lower. He inhales and shifts his legs, pulls the front of his shirt over his lap, glad for the shield of darkness.

Lex.

He stares unblinking at Pegasus' O-square body and L-shaped head. Andromeda V-shaped off its front. Cassiopeia, the great W in the sky. Though from his position at the southern horizon, if he tilts his head to the right just so, it is no longer a W that appears but a backwards E.

+

The city blinking awake beneath him, Lex stares out the window and catches the reflection of his desk clock in the glass. He flips the image in his mind and determines the time. A quarter after seven in the morning and his head hasn't seen a pillow all night. His face is superimposed onto the buildingscape: dark shadows beneath his eyes and skin tight across his cheekbones. Throat sore, sclera bloodshot. He feels like hell; he looks worse.

A voice is prattling through the speakerphone about another delay in research that will set back the company projective another two weeks. How a fully trained professional can botch up a job that could be done by a college freshman with a laptop and internet connection is absolutely beyond his comprehension. He rubs his forehead and cuts the man off.

"I need those statistics by tomorrow morning," he says.

"With all due respect, Mr. Luthor," the nasal voice continues, "even with my entire staff working through the entire night, there isn't any way—"

"Tomorrow," Lex repeats.

"Sir, we've barely got any sleep here over the past few—"

"I don't care if you haven't slept. I haven't either."

"Sir—"

"You've had a week and a half."

"Give me four days," the man pleads. "I can have it to you in four days. I'll walk it up to your office myself."

Lex smiles in frustration and shakes his head. "Tomorrow." He presses a button and disconnects the call. Pushing his hands against the desk, he rolls the chair backwards until the wheels click against the baseboard and leans his head on the window.

Maybe he can just jump. It won't be that far, and his neck will likely snap before his central nervous system has enough time to register the pain, anyway. The papers can always write it off as a murder conspiracy. Perhaps they'll even find a way to blame it on Lionel.

_Luthor Masterminds Son's Murder From Wheelchair._

Maybe not.

The intercom buzzes. "Clark Kent to see you, sir."

He can't hide the smile. His eyes open, and he blinks a few times. "Send him through." Shifting his gaze to the clock, he verifies that it's now twenty after seven in the morning. It must be the farmboy in Clark that's pulled him out of bed before noon, especially on a Friday when he doesn't have class at all.

"Morning," Clark smiles, breezing through the door.

"What in god's name are you doing here at this hour?" Lex asks, and he stands to greet him.

"I got your message about having to cancel lunch. So, I brought breakfast," Clark announces, holding up a paper bag.

"You're a savior," Lex says, and he feels a bubble of relief in his chest.

"Nah. Just a bringer of muffins." Clark grins and slings himself onto the chair opposite the desk.

"I'm starving," Lex says, reaching inside the bag and pulling out the morning classic, blueberry.

"And tired," Clark observes. "You look terrible."

"I didn't get much sleep last night," he says defensively, taking takes a bite.

"You work too hard," Clark admonishes.

"I work hard because I have to," Lex says through a mouthful. He brushes the crumbs away from his upper lip. "It comes with being CEO."

"Isn't being CEO about having people beneath you to order around?"

Lex laughs and shakes his head. "For my father, maybe; but not for me."

"You need a vacation," Clark says. "Many months of vacation."

He shrugs. "You're probably right. I'll take one in a few years."

"Funny."

"I try."

"What're you doing later?"

Lex presses his fingertips to his temples and squints his eyes closed. "Probably passing out from lack of rest and caloric intake."

"You should come over for dinner," Clark tells him.

"Dinner?"

"Yeah, you know. Food. Napkins. Tablecloth if you're lucky."

Lex grins. "And who's going to be cooking this dinner?"

"Me."

"You?"

"Yeah. What, you think I can't cook?"

"I didn't say anything of the kind."

"So you'll come?"

Lex shrugs his shoulders and nods. "Sure. When?"

"Um. Seven?"

"Fine. I'll come by after I'm through here."

They smile; it almost hums in the air. Lex opens his mouth to speak but the intercom buzzes his attention away.

"Line one, sir."

His face falls. "Thank you," he says.

Clark pats the armrests and stands. "Well, I've gotta get back to sleep."

Lex laughs. "See you tonight."

"Bye," he says, waving on his way out.

"Bye, Clark," Lex says, and he smiles as the door closes.

+

"Fuck!" Clark swears under his breath when he hears the knock on the door and then calls out, "It's open!" because the pot of water is boiling over and he think he should've probably just used his heat vision instead of trying to utilize the range top. Lex pokes his head through the door and pushes it open, steps into the cramped kitchen and bites back a smile when he sees Clark flustered over an overflowing pot and clearly smells something burning.

"Anything in the oven, Clark?" he asks as a quiet reminder, and Clark swears again, pulls the oven door open and reaches inside with a bare hand to pull out a metal cookie sheet holding some haphazardly arranged and slightly darkened slices of garlic bread. Clark sets the tray aside and rubs his forehead, turning red at his cheeks.

"Hey, Lex," he says, already positive his suggestion of cooking dinner is by far the biggest mistake he's ever made. How humiliating to fail at boiling water when you can lift a tractor with one arm.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he flinches slightly, then lets out a small, desperate laugh.

"You seem like you could use a drink," Lex says, his mouth close to Clark's ear, smile audible. The tiny hairs on Clark's neck prick up and he nods before he realizes he's got nothing to offer.

Every second shows Clark more embarrassed than the one before. "Oh," he says, flushing hard. "I don't actually have anything besides water." A pat on his back, and Lex moves to stand before him.

"Which is why I stopped for a bottle of wine on the way over," he grins and holds it up for viewing. "And some of that cheese you like. I figured you were out."

Clark smiles at him gratefully, glad to know that they'll at least have something edible for dinner.

"Thanks," he says. "I'll have this," he motions toward the disaster, "ready in a couple of minutes. I'm just having trouble with the pasta because the water keeps boiling over the sides, and I can't figure out why."

"Here," Lex says, and hands him the wine and bag from Gibraltar's. He steps over to the stove and turns the temperature down to medium heat, takes a wooden spoon in hand and lifts a noodle from the surging water, blows on it for a few seconds and puts it into his mouth. Swallows. "They're almost done," he tells Clark. "Give it another minute. Where's your silverware?" Clark points to the drawer next to the sink. Lex takes out a butter knife and scrapes the burned layer off of the bread, brushes the crumbs into the sink and runs water to wash them away. He takes one look at the defrosting cake, which has obviously only been out of the freezer for the past ten minutes or so, and says they'll just eat dessert later, maybe with a movie.

Clark beams with appreciation and gets out two glasses for wine. He sets them on the counter and scrounges around in the drawers for something to loosen the cork but only comes up with a handful of mismatched forks and some scissors. Scowling, he wonders if any of his neighbors seem like wine aficionados.

"What's the matter?" Lex asks, noting Clark's distressed expression.

"I don't have a corkscrew," Clark says.

"Jacket pocket," Lex directs him, and Clark tilts his head in question. "I brought one just in case."

Clark can't help but smile as he retrieves the contraption and puts it to use. Given his track record so far this evening, he's surprised that he doesn't shatter the bottle in his hands. Laying the cork aside, he generously fills both glasses and sets them on the table. His earlier decision to forgo candles is proving his best decision of the night.

In ten minutes, Lex has salvaged the meal that Clark was convinced he'd totally ruined. He looks at the spread with a pleased expression and raises his glass in tribute.

"We make a good team," he comments, as though it's the first time he's ever really put any consideration to it.

"We're great together," Lex agrees, and their glasses clink.

+

Sitting side by side on the couch after dinner, the two start to reminisce about life back in Smallville despite the film playing on the TV. Clark's head is pressed back against the cushions, and Lex is sitting just to his right, close enough that Clark can feel the heat radiate from his thigh.

"Do you remember your first kiss?" Lex asks, shifting a bit closer and resting his elbow along the back of the couch.

"Yeah, this asshole hit me with his car and I had to give him CPR."

Lex laughs but says, "That doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because I was unconscious," he points out.

Clark turns his head to the right and regards Lex with wide, innocent eyes. "I never said it was _you_."

An eyebrow raises. "How many other people have hit you with their cars?"

Holding out a hand, Clark starts to count.

Lex chokes on laughter. He puts out a hand and waves it to cancel his previous question. "Don't answer that," he says.

Clark smiles. "Kay."

He returns his gaze to the television, but he can't really concentrate on the film because now that he can feel Lex's left shoulder pressed against his right. He wonders if Lex has noticed it. Their legs are touching, too, and Lex has to know that, doesn't he? There's just no way he _can't_ , but it's not like he's trying to get away, so this must be all right, Clark reasons. He feels warm all over, his palms sticky, and for some reason, every time he swallows, it sounds so _loud_ that he's sure Lex can hear it. So he sits and doesn't swallow and lets his mouth fill up to an uncomfortable level, his eyes flitting to the right every few seconds to Lex, who is apparently quite focused upon the film that Clark has forgotten about entirely, now.

"Clark?"

"Hm?" He takes the opportunity to swallow, as it finally seems an appropriate time to be swallowing.

"Is there a reason you're staring?" Lex whispers.

Clark feels his face getting hot. "...I'm not staring."

"You're telling me this isn't staring?" Lex turns his head and looks Clark dead in the eye, faces so close they're practically touching, and Clark can feel Lex's breath on his face. Something like fire curls low in his stomach, and there's a chill up his back and in his arms, so it feels like he's freezing and burning all at once. A hand comes to rest on his leg, tapered fingers warm through the denim of his jeans, and Lex is making very good things happen in very bad places. Clark is breathing so hard that he thinks his chest might explode; his lip trembles, and his eyes dart back and forth between Lex's, watching. Waiting.

"Christ," Lex whispers, and his voice is so thin it threatens to break. The hand on Clark's leg squeezes. "You're so goddamned pretty, Clark."

That's it. He reaches up a hand and slides it up Lex's face and to the back of his skull, leans forward and their mouths are together. Warm. Soft. Pressure. Quiet. Wet. Lex's tongue licking at his lips, and he opens them, and then that tongue is inside his mouth, and he can't help the sound that surfaces from the back of his throat. The hand on his leg runs up his side, pushing his shirt up, and hot fingers dance across his back and scrape down. His own hands explore; Lex's scalp is smooth against his palms.

And then Lex is straddling him. Knees press tightly on either side of Clark's thighs, Lex hard against Clark's stomach, hands threaded in his hair. They nip and bite at each other while Clark's fingers gloss over the silk of Lex's shirt, fragile and threatening to break. Lex's mouth leaves his and traces along his jaw. He feels a hand working at his zipper, and then a heavy scent floats onto the air. The same hand reaches up and clasps one of his, brings it between them. His fingertips graze over rounded buttons, press them back through the buttonholes. Something tightens in his chest, and the surging curiosity he feels is the only thing that allows him continuance in the face of his body's trembling. Lex's hand rubs against him, and he bites down hard on his lip, back arching, hips pressing forward.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispers, and his voice sounds unfamiliar. His face is flushed, his hand inside Lex's pants. He's never been more mortified; he's never been more exhilarated.

"Just keep doing—- yes. That. Right—god. Just like that." Lex's breath is hot and wet against his neck. Clark squeezes. Lex takes a sharp inhale, and Clark jumps. He pulls his hand back.

"Are you okay?" he asks, panicked.

Lex laughs and nods. "I'd be better if you wouldn't stop," he says, kissing him.

"I don't want to hurt you," Clark whispers, touching the side of Lex's face with his fingertips.

Lex pets his hair and looks at him steadily. "You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No. But I trust you."

Clark nods and bites his lip. He kisses Lex and smiles against his mouth. Tentatively, he begins again, skin hot inside his fist. Lex slides a hand around his throat and upward, burying his fingers in Clark's hair as his other hand pumps faster. The heat has spread down his legs to his toes, sparks in his nerve endings. Clark is sure the noises coming from his throat have never sounded in his mouth before. He follows Lex's lead, moves his hand faster to accommodate the accelerating rhythm. Lex's teeth graze his neck, and he wishes his skin could bruise.

Mouth open, Clark closes his eyes when the room around him begins to blur together into a stream of colors and spin about his head. There's a buzzing in his ears, static underlain by the sound of his own heart beating loudly in his ears, the surge of his own blood. Sweat pools at Clark's temples and drips slowly down the sides of his face, a salty tang on Lex's tongue where he licks. Smell sharper than he'd imagined, feral, and he sucks in a lungful against Lex's shoulder.

Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, he hears it in his ear amidst the gasping. And then Lex groans, tightens his grip on Clark's hair, and falls against him, breathing hard, but his hand never stops moving. The tingling feeling underneath each toe intensifies and Clark feels his feet curl, the heat radiating from his face and his chest, Lex pressed against him, a need for everything to be faster and harder. The sound of himself begging. And then there's a flash like light behind his eyes, and everything goes dark.

+

Clark awakens to the feel of a hand ghosting across his face. He opens his eyes and can't help but smile at the grey eyes peering back at him.

"Hey," he murmurs.

"Hey," Lex whispers back, fingers tracing over Clark's left cheekbone. "You fell asleep."

A blush. "I'm sorry."

Lex smiles. "You don't have to be sorry for everything, Clark."

"Okay." He closes his eyes again.

The fingers brush his eyelids. "Are you all right?"

"Mmhm."

"Sure?"

"Promise."

"Really?"

He cracks a smile and peeks out from his eyelids. "I thought you trusted me."

"I do. It's just..." His eyes flit down to Clark's mouth, then back up. He smiles. "...late. We should get you into bed."

Clark nods, and his eyes start to fall closed again. "Are you staying?"

Holding his breath, Lex swallows. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

Lex kisses him softly, then takes him by the hand and helps him off of the couch. They leave the dishes for tomorrow, plodding toward Clark's bedroom. Rubbing his face, Clark stifles a yawn while Lex sheds what clothing he still has on and moves to work Clark's pants down his legs. He feels fabric pool around his ankles.

"Step up," Lex directs him, and he obeys. "Now the other." Lex folds the pants and sets them aside, saying, "Lift your arms."

Clark supposes he should feel foolish, being undressed as if he's two years old (and by a very naked Lex Luthor, no less), but instead he finds himself grinning and flushed, beaming while his eyes follow after Lex's hands. He scrunches his eyes closed as the shirt rises up and over his head, and then he opens just his right and trips toward the bed, falling happily onto the sheets he never bothered tucking in that morning and rolling over onto his back. Lex lifts the corner of the top sheet and crawls underneath. The bed is cold. Clark can't afford heat all through the night the way he can. He rubs at his arms and lowers himself as far as he can, pulling the sheet as far up as it will reach.

Clark blinks at him in the darkness. There is a lightness in his chest, and Lex leans forward and kisses Clark for a long while before returning his head to the pillow. Lex's face is faintly outlined in what moonlight is able to pass through the curtains. Clark reaches out and takes one of Lex's hands between both of his and holds it close to his chest.

"You're cold," Clark murmurs and snuggles closer.

Lex smiles and breathes in against his hair. He falls asleep with Clark's arms wrapped tightly around him.

+

_Clark shivers. It's cold here, bleak and foreign, and the ground is soft wherever he steps. Lex sits, his hands cold and body bound in a straight jacket, rocking himself sick in the corner. His eyes are closed, mouth open and moving in silent pleas. Clark calls his name, but Lex doesn't hear, says nothing in return and only continues his quest for solace._

_He steps closer. The air smells of death. He sees now that Lex's scalp is covered in lacerations, red and oozing, his skin ash grey. Lips cracked and bleeding. Rocking slow and mad._

_Closer yet, and he begins to hear words from between those lips. Calls again, but the words only grow louder._

_Let me die. Let me die. Let me die._

_Closer, Clark kneels and reaches out for him, hand brushing the cold cheek. Lex lifts his chin. Clark watches his eyes morph from grey to black, the ink of his pupils bleeding into the irises and beyond, spilling over his eyelashes and down his cheeks in streams of jet._

_Lex smiles, vampiric blood-red mouth._

_Clark screams._

His own voice forces him awake. Breaths come in short gasps, and his eyes scan the ceiling, blessedly familiar, down to the small crack in the corner next to the door. His chin and upper lip and forehead are covered in a sheen of sweat, and he presses his head back into the pillow and takes a moment to compose himself.

It was a dream. It was only a bad dream, and Lex isn't in the asylum any longer.

Lex.

The events of the night before come back to him then, a flash flood of images, and he laughs quietly at the gravity of it all, places a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. It makes sense to him now why the covers seem to have been pulled to the opposite side of the bed. He reaches out a hand and feels across the sheets, but he finds nothing. He turns his head but sees nothing. He sits up.

On the pillow rests a note, hastily scratched out in pencil on the back of a Chinese takeout menu.

_Had to run to the office. Coffee later? - L._

Clark stares at the words, blinking and refocusing his eyes several times until he's sure that he's read it correctly. He sits back and lets his head slam against the headboard, thinking.

While his disappointment is understandable, he can't rationalize the hurt lacing it. It's not as though the note is cruel or even dismissive; it's a coffee invite, after all. Only, it's so...casual. Like something Lex might've sent him the day before.

He supposes he should be grateful that Lex chose to leave; it's spared them both a potentially embarrassing morning. He isn't grateful, though. His hands are shaking, and his mind replays the image of a dying Lex over and over. No matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes closed, he sees bloodblack.

A cold feeling seeps into his veins and crouches, lurking deep, and he can't stop shaking.

+

At half past two, Clark meanders through the sidewalk traffic and into their usual coffee spot. He spies Lex in the corner, already seated with a mug of coffee between his hands.

"Hey," he says, draping his coat over the back of the adjacent chair and taking a seat.

"Hi." Lex slides a second cup across the table to him. "It's black. Is that okay?"

"Fine, thanks." He wraps his hands around the cup and lifts it from the saucer. Holds it to his lips but doesn't drink, just lets the steam tickle his nose. He exhales, and it dances over the rim in a little cloud, then disappears. "How was work?" he asks.

"Chaotic," Lex admits.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Lex smiles. "How did you sleep?"

Shrugging, Clark answers, "Okay. You?"

"Fine, thank you."

Their eyes meet and hold; Clark looks away first.

"Lex...are we...I mean. We. Y'know. And. I was. I'm just wondering." His face is hot, and he rubs at his nose.

Lex blinks and stares into his coffee. "Whether it's going to happen again."

"Yeah."

Lex nods and frowns over his next sip. "I'm sorry I had to leave like that."

Clark raises his shoulders slightly and drops them. "It's okay."

Lex rubs his head. "No, it's not, Clark. I should've at least woken you up."

"You left a note," Clark offers.

"I know." He exhales. "I wanted to stay."

Looking down, Clark taps his fingers on the cup. "Why didn't you?"

"I had work to do?" The minute the words leave his mouth, Lex knows they don't sound at all convincing.

Clark stares at him and raises an eyebrow. Lex looks away.

"I had to think," he tries again.

Clark looks toward the window and sniffs. "About what?" He looks back at Lex.

Lex looks down at his coffee. "About a lot of things."

"Like what?" Clark asks.

"Like what I was going to say to you when you asked why I left."

"Oh." Clark isn't sure what to say to that.

"Look, maybe this is easy for you, Clark, but it isn't. Not for me."

"You didn't have a problem with it last night," Clark says quietly.

Lex frowns. "Christ."

"Well, you didn't."

He takes a quick inhale and places palms on the tabletop. "Maybe it would be best if we didn't see each other for a few days."

Clark's mouth opens and his throat tightens. He doesn't blink. "What?"

Lex lifts a hand off the table slightly to soften his words. "Just so that I can have time to adjust."

"Do you not wanna be with me?" Clark's voice wavers. His throat hurts, eyes stinging.

"No!" Lex says a little too loudly, because a few heads turn. "I mean, Clark, it's not that simple."

"Why not?" He will not cry. He _will_ not cry.

Exhaling, Lex looks down. "Because I spent three years without you. Now you're back in my life, and I don't want to lose you again. I'm just afraid that if we jump into some relationship when—"

"Jump in?" Clark exclaims. He tries to keep his voice down but fails. "This has been building for months. No. Years! Before I even left."

"I just." Lex pauses for breath, eyes shifting rapidly round the room, seeking out anything but Clark's face. "I have a history of failed relationships, Clark. I don't want ours to be next."

"You don't know that it would be," Clark says, reaching for his hand. Lex pulls it back. "You're dooming it before it even starts."

"I think it would be best if we both think about it some more, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. It's not okay at _all_. I knew you'd—" Clark's voice breaks. He swallows hard, reddening, and wipes a hand roughly across his eyes and stands up. "I've gotta go," he says and starts toward the door.

"Clark, wait—!"

But Clark is gone, his departure etched in the echo of the door chimes.

Lex presses his head into his hands. "Fuck."

+

The sweet smell of the barn feels warm inside his nose, and Clark sits tucked behind bales of hay, out of sight from any prying eyes, watching particles of dust dance in the light streaming in through a broken board in the barn's side.

He has been sitting here for two hours, now, and he supposes that were he human, he'd be freezing by now as the air is chilled. But he isn't and figures it doesn't matter that he's sitting in the barn without a jacket on when he can see his breath in the air.

Martha didn't say much when he walked through the door a few minutes after leaving Lex in the coffee shop, hair tousled from the wind and face red and wet and blotchy. She took one look at his face and hugged him close, as if she knew, and stroked his hair and whispered that whenever he felt ready to talk, she would listen. Then she stepped away and offered him a slice of pie. He laughed at that, and she smiled, and they sat quietly together in the kitchen for a while until she started making preparations for dinner.

He walked up to his room and sat down on his bed, kicking his shoes aside and falling back against the pillows. He tried to close his eyes, but even when his eyelids were only half closed, he could see Lex's face in front of him, ruined and horrible. Hear him asking for time. Watch the betrayal playing out just as before, the form of it differing from the last, but still recognizable.

Turning his head, he saw the framed picture of Lex in the frame Lana gave him for Christmas a few years ago. Knowing he might cry if he lay there any longer, he stood up and ran to the barn. Every one of his cells was hyper-aware and alert to every detail inside the structure that had Lex's memory etched into it. More memories lingered there than he could begin to enumerate, but so many were his own, independent of Lex, if he could only find them. Besides, he couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

The loft looked too foreign and the couch too cold, so he chose the hay bales. Tucked his knees to his chest and rested his chin on top of them. Two hours later, he is still sitting in the very same place, with the same thoughts and fears and memories in his head.

Even if he wanted to rid the images from his mind, he wouldn't be able to. He can still feel Lex's teeth on his skin, the wet of his breath on his neck. Taste the tang of his mouth, the texture of his tongue licking at the corners of Clark's lips. Hear Lex moaning deep in his throat, whispering `yes' into his ear. The ghost of his custom cologne floats in his nostrils, and even with his eyes wide open in this quiet space, he can see him. As if those hands were still on his waist, on his legs, on his face, pulling him into an entirely different dimension where it was only he and Lex and no one else, where nothing mattered because it didn't need to.

Because he didn't _want_ it to.

And he hurts in a way he never has, not the way he feels around kryptonite but sore and raw and aching deep inside his chest where he can't claw it out.

He hears the barn door open and a pair of heavy boots stomp inside.

"Clark, can you give me a hand with the tractor?" Jonathan calls, and Clark turns his head to answer.

"Sure, dad." He stands and picks four pieces of hay from his jeans, yawns, and moves to stand beside his father.

"I just spoke to your mother. She said you were out here. Is there a reason you came home," Jonathan asks, setting down a wrench to wipe his hands, "or did you just miss us?"

"Oh," Clark says, frowning and scrutinizing the machinery, though not really seeing a bit of it. "I guess I just got lonely."

"Ah," Jonathan says knowingly, pointing to the side of the tractor and indicating that Clark should lift it. "How's Pete?"

Clark places a hand underneath one side and hoists it from the ground. It's not exhaustive by any means, but he's glad for the physicality of it. "He's fine."

"And Chloe?" Jonathan continues, down on his knees to get a better look at whatever came loose.

"She's good."

"And how's Lex? I haven't heard from him in a while."

Clark feels himself blush, and his eyes hurt again. "He's okay," he answers, and he can hear the upset in his own voice. "He's been busy."

"You should tell him to come by for dinner sometime."

Clark nods, and his throat feels tight. He grips the side of the tractor harder, and they both hear the small squeaks of metal twisting between his fingers.

Jonathan doesn't ask him any more after that.

Part of him wishes he would.

+

Lex walks up the stairs to Clark's apartment and knocks on the door three times, but Clark doesn't answer. The hallway is empty and silent and only dimly lit, to conserve electricity. He tries again but gets nothing and sighs, staring down at the worn carpet underfoot. Slumping back against the wall, Lex exhales a long breath and thinks.

He has been calling all afternoon, ever since Clark left the coffee shop in such a hurry and disappeared out in the street. Lex can't recall how many messages he's already left on Clark's answering machine, and he tries ringing him again from outside his door. He presses his ear to the door and listens for footsteps, but hears nothing.

Clark is ignoring him very successfully or Clark isn't there. Lex prays it's the latter.

Taking a pen and slip of paper from his jacket, he scribbles a quick note that reads "Please come over whenever you get this" and slides it underneath the door along with a spare key to his penthouse and private elevator.

While Clark won't accept material possessions as a form of apology, maybe he'll accept a way into Lex's home. Perhaps they can recreate their brother status, when Clark would show up at the mansion at any hour, for any reason, and things between them never felt so awkward. And they can forget all about last night and just go back to movies and lunches and less-complicated emotions.

Lex thinks he would give anything for that.

With his hands in his pockets, he walks back down to the street and drives away.

+

Clark wakes up early the next morning and dresses before his mother has a chance to climb the stairs to wake him.

"Where're you going, Clark?" Martha calls after him as he makes his way out the door. She is standing at the stove cooking breakfast. He can smell the eggs and hear the gentle popping of grease in the pan as he pulls on his coat.

"To see an old friend," he says. She regards him for a moment, and her face softens.

"Tell her hello," she tells him.

He puts his hand on the doorknob. "I will."

+

"I've been wondering when you were going to stop by!" Lana exclaims and throws the door open wide, standing on her tiptoes to give Clark a quick hug and then usher him inside the Talon's small apartment.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I've just been..."

"Busy?" she supplies with a small smile, and he nods.

"Yeah." He toes the doormat.

"Well, come in! It's cold out. Would you like some hot chocolate? I was just making some for breakfast."

"That sounds great." He closes the door to her apartment behind him and kicks off his shoes.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever," Lana tells him, spooning heaps of hot chocolate mix into two mugs. "Chloe's tried to keep me updated, but it's just not the same. What have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know. School. Homework. What about you?"

"The same," she says, pouring boiling water into both mugs from a blue speckled kettle. She lifts the spoon again and stirs. "Lots of business classes, but they're not so bad because I can draw on my experiences with the Talon."

"How's business?" he asks.

"It's doing well. I can't be here as often as I like because of school, but I've got a lot of part-time workers, and Lex has been great about everything in terms of marketing and finances." She notices the subtle change in Clark's face at the mention of her business partner and sets the spoon aside, lifting both mugs from the counter and handing one to Clark. "Let's sit in here by the radiator," she says, motioning to the front room. "It's warmer."

They settle on the floor with hot chocolate in hand, facing toward the radiator. Lana puts a pillow behind her back and leans up against the leg of the couch. Clark looks around at the sparse but pretty decorations Lana has accumulated in her year and a half in this apartment. It looks very much like it did when she first moved in, only with a few more pictures on the wall. He can see his own face smiling out of a framed snapshot of he, Pete, and Chloe at the fairgrounds. Another one is of he and Lana outside his parents' house the previous summer. A purple frame that reads 'sisters' holds a candid shot of Chloe and Lana doubled over in laughter. And in a very simple black frame set aside from the others rests a photograph that Clark hasn't ever seen before of he and Lex sitting in the Talon, eyes locked, neither talking, both with mischievous grins plastered on their faces.

For a moment, he considers asking Lana for a copy.

She watches him quietly, her dark eyes wide and liquid, taking small sips of her hot chocolate and licking the froth from her lips.

"I took that a few years ago," she tells him, and his eyes snap back to hers. "It's one of my favorites."

"Oh," he says. He tries to change the subject. "So. You dating anyone?"

Lana smiles a little and nods. "There've been a few guys. Nothing special, but I'm doing okay. How about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

"No," he says and takes a long sip. Definitely the wrong subject choice.

She tilts her head. "Is there someone you'd like to be seeing?"

His face feels a little hot, and Clark takes another sip. "Maybe."

"Do I know this person?"

Clark hesitates and sighs. Reluctantly, he replies. "Yes."

"Not Chloe."

"No."

"Please don't tell me it's Pete."

"No! No." Clark shakes his head back and forth. "No," he says a third time, hoping to clear the mental images that are beginning to flood his brain.

Lana laughs. "This is reminding me of one of our first conversations," she says. Clark has to smile at that. Lana continues. "Well, if it's not Chloe or Pete, and it's someone we both know, then there's really only one other person I can think of."

Clark looks up and catches her eyes, and then he nods slowly. Stares down into the rings of chocolate circling the inside of his mug, which have suddenly become incredibly fascinating.

"Has it always been him?" Lana asks quietly, and she pushes long strands of hair behind her ears and stares at her toes.

Blood rises high in his cheeks, and he can feel the smile tug at his lips. "Yeah," he says, and for a moment, he forgets his anger.

"I wondered," she says, her fingers trailing over her ankles. "The way you used to talk about him. Like he was the only person on earth."

"I thought he was," Clark admits and tucks his knees closer to his chest.

"When did you start talking again?"

Clark sighs. "End of August."

"Almost four months," she says. "Plus the two years you two spent flirting before...everything."

He lets out a small laugh. "Yeah."

"Has anything happened?" she asks. "I mean, do you think he's interested?"

Clark looks at her and then down at his fast-emptying cup. Lana remains quiet and waits for him to speak.

"We, uh. We. Y'know." He moves his hands around in the air to try and make her understand, sloshing the hot chocolate over the sides. "Two days ago. He came over for dinner, and we were watching a movie, and then we were making out and—" He pauses to breathe. "—we kinda. Um. On the couch."

Lana clears her throat a little and takes a sip herself. "Oh. Wow, I. Wow."

"Yeah."

"Wow," she says again, putting a hand over her mouth, then drawing it back. "Was it good?"

Clark can't hold back the smile. "Yeah."

"But you aren't together?"

Clark shakes his head. "No."

"Does he love you?"

"I don't know."

Lana nods. "Do you love him?"

"Yeah." His eyes are wide. "Yeah, I do."

"Have you told him that?" she asks.

He shakes his head violently. "No."

"Do you think maybe you should?"

"He said he doesn't want to ruin our friendship by getting into a relationship. I don't see how my telling him that's going to change anything."

"It might not, but don't you think he has the right to know and then judge for himself? You can't keep secrets from people, Clark. Not if you really trust them."

He shrugs. "I guess so. I just. I don't get how he can kiss me like I was everything in the whole world and then turn around and say he just wants to be friends."

She thinks about it for a moment. "Maybe he's scared of losing you again."

"That's what he said."

"But you can't ever predict what's going to happen one way or the other. That's not a reason not to try."

"That's what I told him," he says, casting his eyes down.

Lana leans forward slightly and puts a hand on his arm. "Do you want to know what I think?"

Clark nods his head.

"I think that you should go and talk to him. Tell him exactly what you're feeling. Tell him that you're willing to try if he is."

He meets her eyes. "Do you think that'll work?"

"It's worth a shot. Besides, is it really love if you're not willing to take a chance?"

He pulls her close. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He can hear the smile in her voice. "I love you," she whispers against his hair.

He squeezes her tightly and closes his eyes. "Love you, too."

+

Late Sunday evening, Clark returns to Metropolis, running slower than he usually would the entire time. He doesn't want to go back, but he has a test in that stupid class with Chloe tomorrow morning, and he hasn't thought about studying.

She's probably called him eight times in the last hour panicking because her notes seem to skeletal. That or she's camped out on his doorstep in a sleeping bag, books being used as a pillow.

He shakes his head and laughs when he sees the note and key resting on the welcome mat inside his doorway when he flings the door open and goes to step inside. Chloe's really got desperate if she's handing out keys, he figures, and he picks up the piece of paper and the key and closes the door behind him. He sets them on the counter without another look and moves to the phone. His answering machine registers five new messages, and he rolls his eyes and dials Chloe's number.

"Hello?" a scratchy voice answers.

"Chloe?" he asks, and then feels stupid because who else would be picking up her cell phone at eleven at night?

"Yeah."

"Hey, you. I just got back. Did I wake you up?"

She yawns and says, "No, I'm just studying. Where've you been?"

"At home," he tells her. "But I can see you called a few times. And since when do you leave keys under my door?"

She pauses for a moment and then replies, "Keys?"

"Well, key," he says, dropping the plural. "Were you that desperate for a study partner?"

"Not really, since she pushed the exam back a week."

"She did?" That's a relief.

"Yeah," she says. "So I figured we could study all next Saturday for it and possibly not fail."

He frowns. "Then why the key?" he asks.

"Clark, what're you talking about? What key?"

"The one you left under my door."

"I didn't leave a key under your door. I haven't been over to your place in three weeks!" she exclaims.

"Then who the hell," he starts, and he unfolds the piece of paper on the counter. Recognizes the handwriting and says, "Oh."

"Oh?" Chloe repeats.

"It's from Lex," he moans.

"How do you know?" she asks.

"I read the note."

"There was a note and you didn't even read it?"

"Uh. Yes."

"And you just assumed it was from me?"

"Uh. Yes?"

Chloe laughed over the phone wires. "You're really something, Kent. What does he want?"

"Wants me to come over. We kinda...we had this fight."

"Oh my god," Chloe groans. "You two are so married. What'd you do, fight over mayonnaise brands? Get over whatever it was already and call him. It can't be * that* big of a deal."

"He said he doesn't want to be in a relationship," Clark says quietly.

Chloe pauses. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Her pace quickens to hide her embarrassment. "Clark, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I just assumed you two were...you know. Already in one."

"Yeah."

"But, hey!" she continues, and her voice is bright. "He gave you a key. So, maybe he's changing his mind."

Clark perks up slightly. "You think?"

"It's definitely a possibility," she says, and he knows that she's nodding her head as she says it.

He sighs, and slides down the cabinets to the floor. "Chloe?"

"Yeah?"

He blinks and takes a breath and swallows. "What if he still says no?"

"Cliche answer okay?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

"Then he doesn't deserve you."

+

Clark makes sure to bring along his drivers license when he walks over to Lex's building in case they don't believe that the key was left underneath his door and instead think he's part of a mass conspiracy to murder Lex Luthor. It's cold outside, and he can see his breath in the air a little when he exhales. The stars are out, and the sidewalks are mostly empty of pedestrians. He can see the glow of the Luthorcorp building several blocks away, penthouse alight. Clark holds the key tightly in his hand the entire way there, afraid it will fall through his pocket or be lost in some other way before he ever gets there and never has a chance to say everything he knows he's got to.

Of course, he's not quite sure just how to go about doing that, other than forcing Lex onto the couch and telling him, "Don't you move until I'm done," and then starting in on what is guaranteed to end up a huge rambling mess of syllables and a very red-faced Clark.

Maybe it'd be a good idea to turn back. It's not as though Lex knows he's coming.

But, he realizes, Chloe would be on his back for days if he chickened out like this. Underneath her sarcastic exterior, she's a romantic at heart, and she would undoubtedly devise really embarrassing ways to get he and Lex talking again. Ways that would probably involve things like oversized cards and maybe flowers and quite possibly _poetry_.

What rhymes with Lex, anyway?

He's surprised when the security guard with dark hair, wearing a crisp suit seated at the desk asks his name, scans down a short list and lets him pass without question through the large, glass doors toward the elevator. Clark nods at him, turning the key over in his palm, and tries to remember when and where to use said key.

"Do you know how to work it, son?" the guard calls after him, and Clark shakes his head and is glad for the distressed look he's sure is plastered on his face. "There 's a keyhole on the metal plate just to your right," the man explains. "Insert your key, turn it ninety degrees clockwise, then back again."

"Thanks," Clark says. He does exactly that, and a small orange light glows above his hand. The doors open, and he steps inside. He is relieved to find only a single button on the wall, and he presses it and waits patiently for the doors to close.

The elevator isn't like the elevators in the rest of the Luthorcorp building. It's modest and small, with paneled walls and no windows overlooking the city. It's more like home, and Clark can smell Lex all over every inch of it. He closes his eyes and breathes, the sensation of being lifted higher and higher into the sky tingling in his legs and his stomach. It's almost like flying, he thinks. Or rather, it seems like it would be.

He yawns and feels very much like he could sleep standing up when the elevator begins to slow, and Clark's ears pop with the pressure change. He swallows to clear them and waits for the doors to open.

Stepping out onto the white tile lining the hallway, he walks as quietly as possible and is very aware that his left shoe is squeaking. Running the equivalent of a three-hour drive in the time span of a few minutes isn't exactly the best thing in the world for shoe longevity.

He stands in front of Lex's door, large, grey and impersonal like the rest of the building, and raises a hand to knock. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Tries to formulate what he's going to say. A minute later, he realizes that he has a key to this door in his hand and goes to insert it into the lock when he hears the doorknob rattling, so he steps back.

Lex opens the door with a brandy snifter in hand. "Clark," he says, and pushes the door wider to let the boy in.

"I got your note," Clark explains, holding it up in his hand.

"I left a key with it," Lex says, frowning.

"Oh, I know," Clark says. He opens his palm sheepishly. "I forgot."

Lex relaxes and gives him a small smile. "I'm glad you came. I tried calling you." He closes the door and motions for Clark to follow him into the den. "But you never answered."

"I went home," he says, tucking in his elbow to miss knocking over a vase, blue and green, like watercolors bleeding together on textured wet paper.

"I see." Lex's voice echoes around him as they walk.

"Why did you want to see me?" Clark asks him as they pass through the archway into Lex's den. The walls are wood paneled and warm. It isn't like the hallway or any of the other rooms in the penthouse. It has always been Clark's favorite.

"I didn't like the way we left things," Lex tells him, setting his glass on an end table. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Clark shrugs his shoulders and says, "Water would be good."

"Have a seat," Lex directs. "I'll be right back."

Lex is strangely formal as he lowers his eyes and turns away. He walks to the kitchen and takes a bottle of water from his refrigerator, removes the cap and returns to the den with it in hand. He gives it to Clark, who holds onto it but doesn't drink, not right away. Instead, he studies the label and opens his mouth several times, only no words come out.

"What's on your mind?" Lex asks him, lowering himself into one of the black leather armchairs. He reaches for a crystal bottle of amber-colored liquor, pulls out the stopper, and refills his glass. He holds it up to eye level and swirls it round, watching the liquid coat the sides of the glass and slide down again. Blinks slowly and holds it to his lips, lets the brandy soak his tongue. Clark watches every movement, stares at the eyes peering at him over the rim.

"How much have you had?" he asks, and Lex grins.

"Probably more than I should've," he says, and he raises the glass in salute before taking another sip.

Clark looks down at his jeans and studies the creases around his pockets. There is an ink stain on his right thigh, an accident during statistics when he fell asleep during lecture. Lex's clothing doesn't have any stains. Clark wonders what it must be like to be so clean all of the time, even when shitfaced. "Don't you think you should stop?" he asks, his eyes still lowered.

"No," Lex defies, waving his right hand in the air. "If you must know, I plan to drink until this bottle is gone and then find another one."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

He shakes his head in grandiose fashion. "I'm not sure about anything."

"Look," Clark says, setting down the untouched water and flexing his hands. "I know you're...wasted, but I wanna talk about...what you wanted to wait a few days to talk about."

"You want to talk about the possibility of us entering into a partnership."

"Christ," Clark frowns. "You make it sound like a business transaction."

"Well, it is, in a sense," he says in spoiled brat tone. "A friendship is nothing more than a business venture, if you think about it: two people who mutually benefit from one another's company. And if one side starts to benefit more than the other or not at all, the friendship ends. The venture fails." He makes a small explosion noise and demonstrates the destruction with his hands.

"Why do you do that?" Clark demands.

Lex looks at him and frowns and lowers his arms. "Do what?"

"Reduce things to business terms so that you don't have to deal with your emotions?"

Laughing a bit cruelly, Lex declares, "Emotions make a person weak."

With a fist, Clark hits the armrest hard enough that the indent remains for weeks. "That is some bullshit your father told you _years_ ago that you're bringing up now because you're scared."

Lex narrows his eyes. "Who says I'm scared?"

"I do." He feels his throat starting to clench up, and he swipes the water from where he placed it and takes a hard sip, the plastic warping in his grip. In his anger, he swallows wrong and ends up sputtering for a few seconds while Lex taps his fingers patiently along the side of his glass and watches with unaffected eyes.

"How would you know?" he asks, and he tilts his head just slightly to the side. Were Clark anyone else, he might've missed it, but he can see that behind the nearly perfect apathy routine, Lex is intrigued.

"Because I know you," he says, and his voice softens. "I probably know you better than anyone."

"So?" Lex counters. Were his head not swimming and his vision a little blurred and his ears buzzing, he's sure he'd be able to come up with something more eloquent.

" _So_ , I think you're scared because you care for me a lot more than you want to admit. I think you wanna try this as much as I do," Clark accuses. "You just don't think it'll work out."

Lex exhales in a small laugh and shakes his head. He takes a sip and then another. The burn in his throat is dulled by the third. "You're doing a lot of thinking tonight."

"Yeah," Clark says. "You said that's what you wanted, time to think. Well, I thought about it, and I wanna try. Because as much as I love being your friend, Lex, I want more than that. And maybe that's selfish, but it's what I want."

"And what if I say I think we'd be much better off remaining friends?"

"No," Clark says, and he shakes his head hard and repeats, "No."

"I just don't see how this could work." His tone is calm and confident, and it makes Clark's face burn and his frown tighten.

"Just give it a chance. Give it a week!" It's pathetic to beg, Clark knows, but he's sure that if there is any time where it's okay to put pride aside, this has to be it.

"Clark," Lex says, and for the first time that night, his tongue slips on the words and he stumbles. "I. I just _can't_."

Stomach twisting, Clark sees a blur fade into the lower half of his vision as his eyes well up. "Can't or won't?" he asks, and his words are too controlled and too loaded, and he hates that he can't stop caring and pretend none of this hurts.

With his face expressionless, Lex regards him. He empties the remainder of brandy into his mouth and takes his time about swallowing. He doesn't pour another glass. "Does it really matter?" he asks after a minute, and he doesn't look at Clark when he says it.

There is a pain in his chest like something ripping, and Clark knows he's crying. He can feel the heat on his face, and it's weak and humiliating, but he doesn't wipe his eyes. He lifts his head and stares at Lex as hard as he can without shooting fire, and a disbelieving laugh escapes his lips. Laughter and tears and bitter acid in his throat, he stands up and with the last bit of dignity he can manage, sets the key next to Lex's snifter and fixes his jaw.

With his lips slightly parted, Lex glares at the key and then up at Clark, who stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking worn and angry and hurt.

"That's yours," he tells him, and lifts it between his fingers to give it back. Clark shoves his hand away and shakes his head.

"I don't want it." He steps away and zips his jacket closed. Bites down on his lip. Raises his eyes and meets grey. "Bye, Lex," he says quietly, and he doesn't even care how thin his voice is. He just knows he has to get out of this room.

"Where are you going?" Lex asks, turning his head as if to find the location.

"You said you can't," Clark says, and his voice breaks. "I can't either."

+

Half past ten on Monday night, Lex storms upstairs from his office and throws his briefcase down next to the desk in his den before sinking into a chair and putting his head between his hands. The headache alone is enough to make him consider swearing off alcohol for at least a month, and the stiffness in his neck and back he attributes to having spent the night in an armchair.

Everything from the night before is such a blur, as though he _watched_ himself living it from a distance instead of actually experiencing anything. He vaguely remembers letting Clark in the door, leading him into the den. A bottle of water. Brandy. Lots of brandy. Clark getting upset and hitting the chair. Clark pleading and standing, and finally setting the key down and walking out.

Lex thinks he remembers Clark crying, and it makes his heart hurt.

The key is still resting next to the empty brandy glass, back in his possession, just like everything else he's ever given Clark.

He shouldn't think about that. No, he shouldn't think about that right now.

Tilting the screen to his laptop back, he watches the screen flicker on and enters his password to reboot the system. Waits until the Luthorcorp logo appears in the center of the screen and checks his email. He opens each one, scans it, but doesn't write back. He can't think well enough to type and leaves them all unanswered in his inbox. Scrolling through a few he has saved over the months, he sees the same email address over and over - Clark's university account—and folds the screen closed.

It's like the kid is imprinted on every facet of his life, inescapable, looking back at him from every dark pair of eyes to pass through the office earlier in the day. He 's the dent in the arm of the couch. He's the coat hanging in the hall closet. He's the leftover Chinese in the fridge. He's the ticket stub in Lex's wallet.

Lex damns himself for leaving that key, and damns Clark for using it. Damns the phone calls and the sushi and the movies and the chai and the Italian food. Damns the letter he wrote and that fucking TV. And most of all, he damns the sick feeling in his chest, like half of his soul has been torn away.

Perhaps a single glass of scotch wouldn't be out of line.

He rises and lifts last night's glass from the table, sets it next to the stainless-steel sink on the bar, and lifts a bottle from the shelf. Pours a generous amount into a fresh glass and takes both it and the bottle with him to the window seat, settles down with a cushion behind his back, and wonders what Clark is doing right now.

Chiding himself for lack of self-control, he takes a large swallow of scotch and winces. Years of the stuff, and the first sip still causes him that reaction. He holds the glass to his lips again and swallows more, closing his eyes as his throat muscles contract. Scotch is meant to be sipped, not consumed in mass quantity, but Lex supposes there isn't anything terribly elegant in the whole art of making oneself inebriated, as the end results are the same. Besides, it's so much easier not to think if he _can't_.

He pours himself another.

A single glass, not a single _serving_ , he tells himself, and as he isn't planning on using any other glass than the one in his hand, it means he can drink all he likes until he can't drink any longer. Language is such a complicated thing.

Cold sleet pelts the windows outside, and he spreads his fingers and presses his palm to the glass. It is cool underneath his hand. He can't see the stars through the blur of ice and water on the window.

It will be better like this. It has to be better like this. If it never begins, it can never end. If it never ends, it can never hurt.

Only, it already does.

He presses the inside of his right wrist to the bridge of his nose, the heel of his palm resting on his forehead. If only his mind would quiet. If only he didn't _want_ so much. If only Clark would get out of his head.

Chasing down another glass, he leans his head against the window and listens to the wind blowing past.

+

The knocking on the door is getting louder, and Clark can hear a familiar voice on the other side yelling, "Wake up, Kent. I _know_ you're in there. Don't make me break down this door!"

He stumbles off of the couch where he has been lying for two days straight and toward the door, puts a hand to his mouth and yawns as he pulls it open to reveal a very flustered Chloe impatiently waiting on the other side.

"I am _so_ sorry," she says, wrapping her arms around his back and squeezing him tightly before he even has a chance to say hello. She hugs him for a long time, then pulls back and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

"I missed class today," he says, every part of him radiating misery.

"You missed class yesterday, too," she informs him, stepping forward into the apartment. "It's Tuesday. But I took notes for you. And I emailed that guy with the spiked hair from your stats lecture, and he's going to photocopy his from this morning."

He smiles weakly and pulls the door closed behind them. "Thanks, Chlo."

She beams up at him, and then her forehead crinkles. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," he admits, rubbing his face, and Chloe notes the dark circles under his eyes.

"Do you want me to hate him for you?" she offers.

Clark smiles a little and shakes his head. "Nah, it's okay."

"Are you sure?" she asks, and a part of him thinks she might actually be serious. "I could go over there. Threaten him with a shovel."

While Clark has admittedly run similar scenarios through his head over the past few hours, he doesn't say this, nor does he answer. Instead, he motions to the box in her hands. "What's that?"

"This," she says in a reverent tone, apparently forgetting her shovel comment, "is everything you'll need to get through the next three weeks."

Clark frowns and attempts to figure out the significance. "Why three weeks?"

"It's standard moping time," she reports.

He raises an eyebrow as she walks past him into the living room and pushes aside the dirty plates and tissues that litter the low-set table. He feels a little embarrassed by the look of the place and quickly dashes everything into the kitchen while she arranges herself. Opening the box and removing items one by one, Chloe arranges them all in neat little piles on the table and pats the seat next to her when he reenters the room.

"Sit," she says.

Flopping down next to her, he asks, "Chloe, what is all this?"

"Angst-filled music, the standard action films, Kleenex..." She points to each pile as she speaks. "...hot chocolate mix with those little marshmallows, chicken noodle soup with _all_ the sodium, double-stuffed Oreos, and lavender bath oil."

"Bath oil?" he repeats, eyes widening.

"You have no idea how much it helps, trust me."

"Bath oil," he says again, unimpressed.

She rolls her eyes. "Lots of guys use it."

He sits back. "Name one."

"Pete," Chloe says without hesitation.

"Pete?"

"Yeah. I gave him some once when he was sick, and it made his skin really soft. He makes me buy it for him." She grins, victorious.

"Pete."

She regards him closely. "You're seriously lacking in vocabulary skills today."

Clark sighs, too exhausted for any sort of comeback. "I know," he says, and he leans a head on her shoulder.

"That's okay," she tells him and bites her lip. She isn't used to being the strong one. Clark's breathing is softer now, and Chloe exhales very slowly. "Maybe...maybe you should take a bath, try out that oil? It might make you feel better."

"Will you wash my back?" he asks in a small voice, peering up through his bangs.

Her eyes sting a little, and she smiles and kisses his forehead. "I'll even run the water for you."

+

"How am I supposed to approve something if I've never seen it?" Lex asks the young woman standing before him, her dark hair pulled back tightly behind her head, lipstick bright and lips quivering beneath the red.

"I'll have it to you by this afternoon," she says with as much confidence as she dares.

"I said I wanted it by Wednesday, which was _yesterday_ ," Lex snaps, throwing her written proposal into the wastebasket beside his desk. "How absolutely incompetent are you?"

Tears spring into the girl's eyes, and her hands shake as she says, "Sir, I swear, I've been working on it, it's just that we had a problem with the computer system down in marketing and—"

He puts a hand to his head and squeezes. "Get out. Just get _out_. I will deal with you later."

She wipes at her face, but she misses the black streak down her left cheek. "Yes, Mr. Luthor. I'm so sorry, sir, I—"

He points at the door with his head bowed and doesn't lift it again until he hears it close.

+

Pete says comedies are the best remedy after any breakup.

Clark wants to ask why Pete would even know that, since Pete's idea of a long term relationship is getting to know someone's last name, but he holds his tongue and pulls a red throw pillow tight against his stomach.

On the coffee table in front of him is a plate decked out in as much junk food as he and Pete could afford: cheese squares and chips, and some little sausage things Pete loves that Clark isn't about to touch. They stopped by a grocery store on their way back from the library because Pete said Clark was looking 'on the thin side.'

Walking to the library meant going outside, which meant risking a view of Metropolis' crowning glory, but Clark kept his head tucked down and avoided all newspaper stands, and Pete rambled on about some girl in his psych class who he was _so_ close to asking out. He needed a book, after all, for his final paper in the Class from Hell, and Pete came along to ogle the librarian who ran the science section.

They stopped for subs, too, (roast beef with lettuce and tomato and mayonnaise and Swiss cheese - some Friday two for one) and Clark's is sitting untouched next to the remaining half of Pete's, which is rapidly disappearing.

"I don't need him," he says for maybe the third time in an hour, as if by saying it more and more, he can actually convince himself that it's true.

"Right," Pete agrees, as any good friend would, only his eyes don't leave the screen.

"I'm better off without him," he continues, not really having heard Pete at all but instead running some of Chloe's lyrics through his head.

Pete nods his head in support. "Definitely."

"If he calls later, I'm not picking up the phone," Clark declares.

"No offense, man," Pete said, setting aside a stray pickle, "but I don't know what you saw in Luthor in the first place."

"Me neither," he says, and it's a lie because everything he loved is flashing through his head: emails and sushi and movies and talking about anything, because Lex listened to everything he said. Looking and wanting and _finally_ touching, and the kissing, oh christ, the kissing. He groans and rubs at his face.

Taking a huge mouthful of his sub, Pete stares at the topless girls standing ankle deep in a wading pool of KY jelly. "Damn, those girls are hot," he says through a buffer of lettuce. Clark doesn't seem to notice. Pete nudges him with his leg. "You see that?"

He blinks and tries to focus on the screen. "See what?"

Pete rolls his eyes and takes another bite.

"I think I'm gonna get rid of everything that reminds me of him," Clark says after a few minutes of staring at the surface texture of a piece of cheddar.

"Do whatever you want, man," Pete tells him. "BUT."

Clark takes the bait. "But?"

Pete grins. "I'm keeping the TV."

Clark has to laugh, and he leans forward to grab a chip. As Clark moves next to him, Pete tilts his head and sniffs at the air.

"Clark," he says, frowning. "You wearing lavender?"

Fidgeting, Clark sinks lower into the couch and crunches down on the chip. "...no?"

Pete elbows him, laughing. "Chloe got to you, didn't she."

+

Two weeks later, Lionel is sitting upright in his chair studying afternoon traffic patterns, his nurse dozing off in the corner with a magazine in her hands when Lex enters the room in a pair of grey slacks and beige sweater, a wine glass perched in his left hand.

"Hey, dad," he says, pulling up a seat, and Lionel's eyes flit over to meet his, hungry for conversation, hungry for something. Even mute, Lionel demands attention, hair still well kept and fingernails manicured, clothing opulent.

"That's some nurse you've got," he comments, motioning to the woman snoring away.

Lionel's eyes seem to dance a bit.

"You like her? She costs enough." He takes a drink from his glass and swirls the wine around his mouth, dry fruit with a hint of oak. He swallows and smiles a little bitterly. "You probably thought I was going to have you placed in an institution, like where you left me. Probably thought I'd be just like you."

Setting down the glass, he dabs at his mouth with the back of his hand. Lex tries to smile, but he can't sustain it and looks down at his lap. He reaches out his right hand and places it on top of his father's.

"I can't do this, dad." He lifts his chin and stares out the window at the grey winter sky and inhales. "You remember Clark Kent. I finally got him to talk to me again. Took me a whole year. And for a while, everything was...perfect. It was like we were back in Smallville again."

He swallows, frowning a little.

"But then it became...serious. I thought that it would be easier to end it now than watch it end in a month or a year, so I did, only now I can't get him out of my head, and christ, why am I even _telling_ you this?"

Pinching his nose, he tucks his head to his chest.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he whispers.

The fingers underneath his twitch the tiniest bit, and Lex's head jerks up, eyes searching out Lionel's and fixing on them.

"Did you love my mother?" he demands, and Lionel blinks once.

"Weren't you afraid of that?"

He blinks again.

Lex looks out the window, breathing hard and erratic, clenching his jaw. Wisps of clouds drift past and the city below is revealed to him. He draws in a deep breath and holds it, closes his eyes until he can feel his heartbeat begin to slow, then lets it out and feels his shoulders sink.

And then he's on his feet, running down the hallway to his bedroom. He tears open his closet and paws through his clothes and throws them over his shoulder until he has a small pile on his bed of shirts and pants suitable for a weekend trip. Grappling for his cell phone, he dials his assistant and holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls a black leather overnight bag from the highest shelf and sets it open on his bed, folding his clothes quickly and placing them inside.

"I need you to cancel all of my appointments for the weekend," he directs upon her `hello.'

A robe. Should he bring a robe?

"No, no, it's nothing serious. Just move them to next week."

Slippers?

"I should be back Monday, yes."

Sunglasses?

"Thanks," he says, flipping the phone closed and tossing it aside.

He hurries into the bathroom and collects his toothbrush, facial cleanser, and cologne, then returns to his bedroom where he tucks them all into the corners of the bag, then zips it closed.

"Is that everything?" he asks himself, and with arms akimbo, he turns around once, but he can't think rationally.

Hoping he has enough to see him through, he pockets his cell phone, swings the bag over his shoulder and trips back down the hallway to the front closet. Setting the bag down momentarily, he takes out the jacket Clark left by mistake a few weeks earlier and pulls on his own black coat. Slinging the jacket over his arm, he lifts the bag once more, pushes the closet door closed and lifts the keys to his Porsche and wallet from the red ceramic dish in the entryway.

Standing before the elevator, he wonders when it became so slow, checking his watch at ten second intervals. When it finally arrives, he gets inside and pushes the button four times until the doors close, then taps his right hand against his left arm as he watches the buttons above the door count down from the penthouse down to the ground floor.

He practically falls out of the thing when it opens, running through the door marked `garage' on his right and wincing at the cold blast of air that meets his face. Searching frantically for the Porsche in the sea of automobiles, he spots it parked along the wall and hastens toward it. Pulling open the driver's side door, he first reaches across the console and places his bag and Clark's coat on the passenger seat, then climbs inside. Closes the door. Leans back in the seat with his hands on two and ten on the wheel and looks at his reflection in the rear view mirror.

Worn through, dark smudges beneath his eyes, gaunt and paler than usual.

God. Clark must absolutely hate him.

He laughs at his own stupidity and places the key in the ignition, turns it until the motor growls to life and the car purrs all around him. Shifting into reverse, he presses the gas pedal and the car slides backwards.

+

"Chloe, jesus, calm down. I'm coming," Clark yells, scrubbing a towel over his wet hair on his way out of the shower. He wraps it around his waist and holds it in place with his left hand while he opens the door. "I thought we cancelled for today because you—"

Lex, flustered and panting, stands in the hallway in his floor-length black coat, hands tucked into his pockets.

Clark frowns.

Clark goes to slam the door, but Lex puts an arm in the way. For a moment, Clark considers pushing really hard just to hear all of the bones in Lex's arm snap, but the side of him that doesn't hate the billionaire completely takes over, and he stops pushing, leaning his head into the door jam.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, his arms still barring Lex entrance.

"You forgot this," Lex says quietly, and he holds out the key.

Clark shakes his head. "No, I didn't."

Lex turns the key over in his hand, widening his eyes.

"I took the weekend off," he says, his gaze cast downwards to the object in his palm. He takes a breath and swallows, squeezing his hand tightly around the key until he can feel the edges pressing sharp against his skin. "I was thinking about driving over to Smallville. Haven't seen the mansion in a while. My car's downstairs. And...I brought your coat."

He's met with a glare in return. Looks away.

"If we leave now," Lex continues, "we could be at your parents' in time for dinner." Hands shaking, he lifts his eyes and his throat contracts. Blood surges in his ears, and his stomach churns.

"Christ, Clark, please?" he whispers, voice choked, and then he can't see anything at all through the blur.

Clark's face softens, and something in his chest seems to catch when he realizes Lex is crying. The anger and hurt and hatred fade away, and all that's left is an overwhelming urge to hug Lex to him and make him stop.

The next thing Lex knows, he's got an armful of alien, wet hair pressed against the side of his face, and the boy's arms are wrapped tight around his neck like he's never going to let go again. He breathes in deeply and smells soap and apple shampoo and Clark.

"I missed you," Lex whispers, his eyes wet, gripping Clark's hair in his right hand, left hand sliding over the naked back. Clark nuzzles his face against Lex's and kisses his temple and his cheek and finally his mouth. Lex hears himself moaning and doesn't care, opens his lips to let Clark's tongue inside. Finally, god, god, * yes*, what the hell had he been thinking? How could anything be better than this?

Clark kisses him hard, and the towel at his waist begins to loosen. He pulls Lex tighter against him, licking at his mouth, and it falls away completely. Lex's hands snake downwards, and Clark sucks in a breath of air when he feels cold fingers brush between his legs.

"Maybe we should go inside," he whispers, and Lex grins against his mouth. They manage to stumble through the door and inside the apartment without breaking apart, leaving the towel out in the hall. Lex feels himself backed against the wall in Clark's living room and dislodges a picture frame that falls onto the carpet.

"Should we get going?" he manages, hand stroking, Clark's hands steady on his hips. He's not sure how he managed to even think that, let alone articulate it, considering he's got a very enthusiastic, naked Clark pressed up against him.

"No," Clark whispers, scraping his teeth along Lex's ear and over his jaw until he reaches his mouth. "We can spare twenty minutes." He skims his hands along the expensive waistline and tugs at the zipper.

"Hell," Lex mutters, Clark's lips against his. "Let's take an hour."

+

Lex has to laugh as he pulls off the highway and heads toward Smallville, because Clark is beaming and singing in a silly, off-key voice to an old song on the radio. His hair's still tousled because he hasn't bothered to fix it, and he keeps smiling over at Lex with his eyes huge and bright. Oh, the Kents are going to love that, Lex thinks. First he hurts their son unforgivably, then he brings him home looking unmistakably as if he's just had sex on the floor.

At least Clark put on clothes.

The fields are dormant for the season, and everything stretches flat all around them, electrical poles the tallest structures for miles and miles. It is so very different from the city, so quiet and personable, so much more home than the city could ever be. Something like contentment stirs him, and Lex feels glad to be back.

"Are you okay?" Clark asks when they pull into the driveway to the Kent farm, and the car is idling. He places a hand on Lex's leg and squeezes gently.

"I'm fine," Lex tells him, shutting off the engine, his voice slightly strained. Clark pretends not to notice.

"Okay," Clark says and gets out of the car, but Lex's legs refuse to work. He sits paralyzed in his seat, hands still gripping the wheel, until Clark opens his door for him and reaches inside, pulls his hands from their resting places and helps him to his feet. Lex feels rather ridiculous, seeing as he's twenty-six and his twenty year old...boyfriend? is helping him walk, but he lets it happen all the same. There's something nice about having Clark's arm around his shoulders, about the feel of flannel brushing against the back of his neck.

They walk up to the door, and Clark knocks twice and pushes it open, saying "Hello?"

Martha comes in from the other room and exclaims, "Clark!" when she sees him standing in the doorway. She hugs him tightly and kisses his cheek. "Honey, I didn't know you were coming home this weekend. We're going to have to buy you new shoes!"

Clark grins and reaches onto the porch for Lex's hand, leads him into the kitchen and doesn't let go. "Actually, we drove," he tells her, and the smile on his face and mortified look on Lex's is more than enough for her to understand all.

"Lex," she says kindly, and he extends a hand, but she pulls him close. "It's been so long," she says. "It's good to see you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," he says.

"I've been telling you for years, Lex, please call me Martha," she whispers into his ear, then pulls back and smoothes the front of her shirt. "Clark," she says, her eyes still fixed on Lex. "Your father is out in the barn. I'll have dinner ready here soon. Why don't you go and help him until it's done?"

Clark's face falls a little. "What about Lex?"

"Lex can help me in here," she tells him, stepping up to the counter. "I'm going to need someone to help me peel apples."

"What're you making?" Clark asks, his initial disappointment fading a little.

"What do you think I'm making?" Martha asks in a teasing voice, and they share a private smile. She kisses his cheek. "Tell your father he has an hour."

Clark nods, then turns to Lex. "Will you be okay?"

"Contrary to popular belief," Lex grins, "I've peeled a few apples in my life. I'll be fine."

"Okay," he says, and his eyes flicker to his mother for a moment. He blushes, leans in and kisses Lex quickly, then speeds out the door.

Lex stands, stunned, and presses his lips together while Martha regards him with a bemused expression. She shakes her head and laughs at his embarrassment while she fetches two paring knives from the utensil drawer.

"You can go ahead and take off your coat," she tells him, and Lex says, "Oh," and shrugs it off of his shoulders, draping it over a chair. She walks over to the fridge and pulls the door open, taking out a bag of small apples she bought at the market the day before.

"I'm glad I bought these," she says.

"What _are_ you making," Lex asks, having not understood the look passed earlier from mother to son.

"Well, originally, I was going to bake a spice cake, since it's cold," she explains, setting the bag on the counter and removing the twist tie, which she places in a drawer with about a hundred others. "Jonathan loves those. But, I happen to have these apples that I was saving for next week. And as my son is particularly fond of apple pie, I figured, what better occasion?"

Lex has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the mention of Clark's favorite dessert. He's been witness to a few too many pie requests at the various restaurants in Metropolis, as well as pouting fests when they inform him that they don't carry such a thing or are currently out.

"Would you like an apron?" Martha offers. "I don't want that beautiful sweater getting stained. Or, oh! Why don't you run upstairs and put on one of Clark's old t- shirts? That way we won't have to worry. Those have seen it all."

Lex nods and takes the staircase to the second floor, the air upstairs warm and still. It smells like vanilla candles, and Lex realizes he forgot to bring Martha a gift. Excusing himself only on the grounds that the entire trip was conceived in a fit of romantic fury, he turns the doorknob to Clark's childhood bedroom and steps inside.

Apart from its being uncluttered, the room reminds Lex instantly of Clark's apartment in Metropolis. Red flannel bedspread and matching curtains. White walls. Beige carpet. A modest bookshelf filled with framed pictures of Lana and Chloe, some of Pete, and one of him. He reaches for it and takes it from the shelf, grimaces at how awful he looked in the lighting, not to mention the purple frame, which must've been Lana's idea.

Laughing, he sets it back in place and walks to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and finding only Clark's boxer shorts. He tries the next and finds a familiar blue t-shirt neatly folded on a stack of others. Raising his hands to his throat, he unbuttons his collar and works his way down the front of the shirt. Works it from his arms and hangs it up in Clark's closet. He flushes at the idea of his clothes hanging next to Clark's, then chides himself for being overly sentimental.

The cotton shirt is soft against his skin when it pulls it over his head, and it hangs loosely around his waist and at his shoulders. Pressing his nose to it, he can smell Clark, and returns downstairs with the feeling that he's wrapped up in him.

Martha stands over the sink, apple in one hand, knife in the other. Her red hair catches in the afternoon sun, and his heart warms to see her. If ever he were to have a mother apart from his own, he would choose her.

"How can I help?" he offers, stepping up next to her. She motions to the second knife, which he takes up in his left hand, then reaches for an apple. He mimics her movements. She looks over at him and sighs, smiling.

"For so many years, I thought Jonathan and I would never have a child of our own," she begins to reminisce, her hands moving deftly. "I used to pray for a miracle; every day of my life, I prayed that we would be blessed, somehow. Then one day, there he was peering in at us through the car window, and I knew right then that my life would never be the same."

She sets the peeled apple aside and takes another. Lex is quiet, his eyes focused on his first apple, the skin of which he is determined to peel off in a single, curling strip.

"We taught Clark acceptance, because we knew there would be people who wouldn't accept him for who he was, and it was so important to us that he learn to embrace difference. But the loyalty, the trust—that came from him."

Lex doesn't know what to say and holds his tongue, nodding his acknowledgment of having heard. His apple only half peeled, Martha reaches for her third.

"When he met you," she continues, "his whole life changed. Because of the accident, he found out who he was and where he came from. He hadn't known that. And Jonathan was against your friendship from the beginning. Clark hadn't ever had to stand up to him before, not over friends, but he did it for you."

His hands still, and Lex suddenly feels very young. Martha exhales and raises her chin to look out the window. The grass is faded and wilted from the occasional morning frost, and spots of blue peek out from behind the cloud cover.

"You were the first person he ever chose over us," she says, resuming her work. "He talked about you all the time, in ways that reminded me of the way I used to talk about Jonathan when we first met. I always wondered whether you two were ever going to end up like this. I'm not sure if Jonathan ever saw it, but I know I did. When you were sick, I don't think I've ever seen anyone more devastated. He would talk about finding ways to get you out. I think part of him wanted to hide you up in his loft until you were better."

Setting her knife aside, she places a hand on top of his and takes a small inhale.

"I want Clark to be _happy_ ," she says, looking into his eyes, and her mood has shifted because she's frowning a little. "I know he loves you. I know how hard it's been for him to come to terms with that because of what happened between the two of you. And I know you love him back."

Lex stares. "I—" He doesn't finish.

Martha smiles. "When I met Jonathan, I thought I'd never find a better friend. I can still remember the day I realized that I was in love with him. He called to say goodnight one evening after he'd had to break our date because of tractor problems or something on the farm. I didn't quite understand the farming lifestyle, being from the city, but I told him it was fine, and that I'd see him the next day. When I hung up the phone, I smiled down at it and knew."

"Were you scared?" Lex asks.

"I was terrified," she confides. "I thought it meant our friendship was coming to an end. I thought we would probably stay together for a while and then gradually grow apart, and it would be over." She squeezes his hand. "That was over twenty years ago. I still love him, and he's still the best friend I've ever had."

Lex opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

"You'll never know unless you try," she says, and she holds his eyes until he nods. She nods back, smiles, and says, "Well!" Inhaling, she lifts her knife from the counter and starts in on another apple.

They peel the remainder of the bag in silence.

+

After dinner, which is polite to the point of awkward, Clark and Lex find themselves seated on the loveseat in the living room, with Martha in the adjacent chair and Jonathan pacing the floor in front of them, beer in hand.

Dinner conversation started out being a summary of everything that had happened in Clark's life since the last time he visited home, and it consisted mainly of horror stories from his women's studies lecture and something about Chloe and lavender bath oil.

"Though Pete uses this orange and vanilla kind," Clark said to buffer the lavender part.

Lex had hoped that perhaps they could skip over the _by the way_ , _we're basically dating and hope you don't mind_ part of the evening, and he was quite convinced they weren't going to have to address the issue at all until Clark said something about Lex maybe staying upstairs with him, since he has a big bed and all.

After the unreadable look Jonathan gave him, Lex wanted to sink into the roast.

"Why would Lex want to stay upstairs with you?" Jonathan asked, eyes fixed on Lex, who gulped down his glass of water quickly as a distraction.

"I don't think he would mind," Clark said as a means of answering.

"I suppose there's something you two should be telling me," Jonathan said, folding his hands in front of his plate. So Clark explained the situation, with Lex turning a more and more amusing shade of red the entire time, and Jonathan worked very hard to maintain a relatively neutral expression.

Noting Lex's discomfort, Martha suggested they save the pie for later, and move the conversation into the living room where they would all be more relaxed. Needless to say, Clark was devastated at the idea of having to wait on his favorite part of the meal, but he forgot his disappointment when he noted that Lex looked ready to fall out of his chair.

"I'm just not sure how to take this," Jonathan is saying, a frown clearly etched on his face. He paces the floor in front of Lex's legs. "I've always stood by Clark's decisions, even if I didn't agree with what he was doing, because I raised him to think for himself. I taught him the value of hard work, how it's worth more than money or power or a last name. I trust his judgment."

Lex shifts his legs and fidgets with his pant legs, looking from Jonathan to his wife and back again. It's been years since Jonathan has spoken to him like this. He can feel Clark's eyes on him, and feel the hand on his arm holding him in place, but underneath his skin, his body is begging him to run.

"But I have reservations," Jonathan continues. "Because even though I can try and understand how my son feels about you, I can't say I understand your motivations for wanting to be with him."

"Dad!" Clark yells, but Jonathan waves him quiet.

"So, Luthor." Lex jumps at the name, his palms sweating. "You give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick you out of this house right now."

Seconds seem to stretch to infinity, ticking away ominously on the clock in the corner. This is it.

"Because I need him," Lex tries, eyes wide and watering, stomach churning acid.

"You need him?" Jonathan repeats, and he stops walking. Looks down at the figure on the couch. Lifts the beer to his mouth and takes a swig of it. Challenging. Waiting.

Lifting his head higher, Lex takes a deep breath, looks the man sharply in the eyes and says, "I love him."

Clark turns his head so quickly, there's a small breeze against Lex's cheek. And Lex lets out a laugh because he realizes he just said that out _loud_ in front of Clark and his parents. He's laughing so hard that he's got tears on his face now, but he doesn't feel so sick anymore. Clark's jaw is still dropped, and he leans in and kisses the side of Lex's face and hugs him close.

Lex sinks into him, eyes closed, and his fingers fold around Clark's forearm. Grip tightly. Warm skin beneath his hand, and this is real. This is real. This is real. Clark's hair tickles his nose, and he inhales. Suddenly remembers just where he is and blushes, but doesn't sit up and doesn't let go. Clark's face is still nestled against his neck.

Lex looks up to find Jonathan smiling at him, and Martha wiping at her eyes.

Jonathan shakes his head, having abandoned his beer and holding up a bottle of wine, saying, "Lex, you look like you could use a drink."

As Lex notes the abrupt change in attitude and name, a sense of understanding settles upon him, and his mouth opens slightly. "You did that on purpose!" he accuses.

Laughing, Jonathan hands him a glass. "Well, it worked. Welcome back into the family, son."

+

"Why do you love the stars so much?" Lex asks later that night, his breath puffs of smoke in the cold air. They stand framed in the loft's window, Clark's telescope in between them.

Clark shrugs. "Cause it's like home, I guess. No matter where I go, what city or what planet," he grins, "they're always there. The stories. People have always seen important things in them. I guess that's what I like."

Lex studies the patterns and asks, "What do you see?"

Clark inhales and scans the sky, steps behind Lex and wraps an arm around his waist. Lex leans back into him and places both hands on Clark's arm. "Well, you remember Pegasus? The boxy one right there?" Clark points with his right hand.

Lex squints and follows along with the hand drawing patterns in the air. "Yes," he says.

"If you trace it out," Clark explains, "it's shaped like an L and an O. Then see that one? The V-shape?"

"Mmhm."

"That's Andromeda. And that one?" He points again.

"Cassiopeia?"

"Yeah. Some people say it's shaped like a W, but I think it looks more like an E."

Lex smiles and feels himself drawn in tighter. "I like your version better."

The chest against his back vibrates with Clark's laughter. "Me too."

The air is cold, but Lex doesn't feel it.

"I'm sorry about my dad," Clark says.

"I'm not," Lex tells him. "I deserved that."

"Did you mean what you said in there?"

"Yes," Lex says, biting his lip. "Do you mind?"

"No," Clark says quietly. He rubs his cheek against Lex's scalp. "Would you mind if I said it sometime?"

Out of relief, Lex has to laugh. "No, I wouldn't mind at all."

"D'you think you might want to say that for a while? Like, y'know. Years or something?"

Lex turns his head, and Clark's chin rests against his forehead. "I'd like to try," he says, and tilts his face upward. He kisses Clark, kisses him softly, all the time in the world for them now.

He feels as though he's falling, falling yet safe in these arms around him, safe like he's never felt before. Like the fissure between them has finally sealed and faded away, as though it never existed to begin with, and there is only his memory of it.

"Stuff of legends," Clark murmurs against his lips.

Lex smiles. "Legends."

**Author's Note:**

> Begun November 22, 2003 and completed January 10, 2004. The original first line, "I never want to see you again," was initially written in pen on my forearm, because I had no paper with me when I came up with the idea. You will find a shameless reference to "Old School." Martini's is a fabulous pizza house located in Kalamazoo, Michigan. As far as I know, they don't serve penne pasta with a lemon cream sauce & sauteed asparagus. Actually, I don't know anywhere that sells such a dish, so if you do, please let me know because I'd love to try it. Gibralter's is based upon Amer's Mediterranean Deli in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I don't think they sell cheese, however.
> 
> On the constellations: I consulted several star charts when writing this piece, as I wanted any and all star references to be accurate. As far as I know, all constellations mentioned within the story are visible in the month of December from the northern hemisphere, and Pegasus is visible in August, if one has an unobscured view of the east.
> 
> Dedications: Thank you to the LJ crew for support & suggestions. Veronica, thank you, thank you, thank you. Your ideas helped take this from the most cliche romance in the world to a slightly more original piece of work. For Jaxxy. Thank you for so many years of support & friendship. I wish you the happiest birthday imaginable. <3


End file.
